


The Devil You Know

by citrinesunset



Series: The Devil You Know [1]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Background Neal/Kate, Discipline, Dubious Consent, Humiliation, Multi, Non-Consensual, Rimming, Sexual Slavery, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-08 10:29:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 25
Words: 124,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/citrinesunset/pseuds/citrinesunset
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being convicted of bond forgery, Neal is sentenced to four years of slavery. But he isn't prepared to be purchased by Peter Burke. Or for what Peter has in store for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the following prompt on [](http://collarkink.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://collarkink.livejournal.com/)**collarkink** : "In a 'verse where cons are slaves for the duration of their sentences, Peter buys Neal to be his sex slave. Problem: Neal is straight. He'll do stuff for El but doesn't want to service Peter. Want Peter coaxing/coercing Neal into gay sex acts: hand job, blow job, rimming, fingering, frottage, etc...until finally forcing (non-violently plz) anal sex on him. It's fine if Neal cums, but plz keep him straight and coerced. (Bottom!Neal only plz)."
> 
> You can read the complete, original fic on the kink meme [here](http://collarkink.livejournal.com/3437.html?thread=4023405#t4023405). This is a revised version that has been cleaned up and altered slightly. I have to finish editing/revising the second half, but the fic is otherwise complete.
> 
> I would like to thank everyone who has given me feedback on this fic and helped me brainstorm: all my commenters on the kink meme, [](http://miri-thompson.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://miri-thompson.livejournal.com/)**miri_thompson** , who helped me with parts of the ending, and others who have patiently read this fic and given me feedback.

Neal couldn't help but be a little flattered. He wasn't scheduled to go to auction for a few days, but someone had already purchased him.

He learned about it when the guards woke him up early that morning, while the other slaves were still asleep. One of them jostled him awake and said, "Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty. You've been purchased. Time to get you cleaned up."

By now, Neal knew better than to ask for details. Some of the guards were cool about talking to the slaves, but others figured it was the trainers' job to explain things and didn't take kindly to questions. Neal had had a couple weeks to feel out the guards, and he knew that the guy who was attaching a leash to his collar, Mark, didn't like questions. The other guard, Paul, was new. If Neal had more time, he could've worked on him, maybe gotten some sympathy.

Mark tugged on the leash and Neal quickly got up from the sleeping mat. Around them, a few of the other men in the dormitory stirred, noticing that something was going on. Neal hadn't gotten very close to his fellow slaves, even after two weeks of court-ordered training. There was no one he needed to say goodbye to. But he couldn't help but wonder if they'd be talking about his surprise departure later.

The guards led him out into the hall. The linoleum floor was cold underneath Neal's bare feet. Neal stole a glance at a digital clock on the wall and saw that it was just after seven. The morning alarm would go off in less than a half hour. While the guards led him to the showers, they talked.

"Is this normal?" Paul asked. "A slave being bought prior to auction like this?"

"No," Mark said. "It's pretty rare. Whoever wanted this one must know the system pretty well. I heard an offer was made as soon as he finished training."

One of the few advantages to slavery, Neal found, was that people didn't think twice about talking about him as though he wasn't there. It was degrading, but useful. He eagerly listened for more information about his buyer, but none came. He got the sense that Mark and Paul didn't know much more than he did.

Neal liked the attention, though. Invisibility might have been useful, but it was tough. He was treated like just another slave. Even after his arrest, he'd been Neal Caffrey, infamous forger and thief. Here, he was just an ID number, and nobody cared about anything except his ability to serve his future owners.

He was also a little relieved that he wouldn't have to go up on the auction block. He'd seen slave auctions before. He wasn't looking forward to being paraded on stage, especially when old acquaintances and enemies could be watching from the audience. He'd heard that potential buyers would be able to see him naked and examine him prior to bidding.

Once they got to the shower room, Neal was ordered to strip out of his thin shorts. Mark unclipped the leash and put on a pair of latex gloves. Without warning, he reached down and felt Neal's bare groin. Neal resisted the temptation to flinch away. He was starting to get used to being touched, but that didn't make it fun.

"Good," Mark said, "still pretty smooth. Good thing you got shaved last night. Just be glad your new owner didn't ask us to give you an enema." Stepping back and removing the gloves he said, "Go on, get in the shower."

While Neal washed himself, he started to think about who might have bought him. Underneath his pride and relief at avoiding the auction block was a growing sense of unease that turned his stomach in knots.

Whoever bought him must have planned it ahead of time. Best case scenario: it was someone who wanted to save him. Maybe Mozzie had liquidated some assets and purchased him using an alias.

Or perhaps a museum was buying him to work as an authenticator. He'd heard about things like that happening.

There were other possibilities, however. There were people out there who might bear a grudge against him. People who would relish the chance to own him. There were heavy restrictions on felons being purchased by their victims, but Neal had run a lot of cons that he was never tried for.

And his trainers had told him that felons who had less than five years to serve were usually purchased for sex. They hadn't even bothered to train him for domestic work, like they did with the guys who had longer sentences.

Mark and Paul talked while Neal showered, and he could hear snippets of their conversation over the sound of the water. But they were talking about the weather, and about the new batch of enslaved felons that had arrived the other day. Nothing that was helpful.

When he was done, Neal toweled off and Paul gave him a disposable razor and some shaving cream so he could shave his face. He was glad they were letting him do this bit on his own. His pubic hair had been shaved off twice now by a slave owned by the processing center. Suffering that indignity once a week was often enough. He hoped it wasn't going to be a routine wherever he was going.

Mark ran a gloved, impersonal hand over Neal's face when he was done, making sure that he'd done a satisfactory job.

They didn't give him his shorts back. But nudity was nothing new. Mark reattached the leash, and he and Paul led Neal toward Receiving. It'd been over two weeks since Neal came through this part of the building, but he remembered the layout.

He suppressed a cringe when they brought him into the room with the familiar examination table. The one with the stirrups.

Mark turned to Paul and said, "The owner's going to want to get a look at him before taking him home. You know, make sure he's in good shape and everything." Turning to Neal, he smirked and said, "You know what to do. Up on the table."

Neal did know, and it was just too much. He was losing his ability to play the obedient slave and still retain any dignity. Not caring if he pissed off the guards (he was being sold, anyway. What did it matter?), he stomped over to the table with a sigh and climbed up. Not wanting to give Mark the satisfaction of ordering him around more, Neal put his legs in the stirrups on his own volition.

It was a ridiculous set up. The stirrups held his legs wide apart, and forced him to bend his knees. The cool air between his legs reminded him of how exposed he was.

As if to prove the point, Paul smiled and said, "Poor guy. If he was purchased for his looks, this air conditioning isn't doing him any favors."

Mark chuckled, and Neal bit off a retort.

Yeah, like _their_ privates wouldn't shrivel up if they were forced to lie naked in a cold room.

The room and the stirrups brought back bad memories of his intake exam.

He'd been taken to the processing center immediately after sentencing, along with a few other men. Neal had expected it to be like jail. But unlike jail, the processing center didn't make even a token effort at providing privacy. Neal and the others were required to strip naked and hand over their belongings at the front desk. Next, they had to line up while the guards locked collars around their necks and subjected them to a cavity search. A couple of the men argued with the ignominy of it all, but Neal knew it was best to keep his mouth shut.

Next, they'd been taken to the showers and encouraged to use the open-air toilets. Neal spent the whole ordeal with his eyes facing forward, doing his best to ignore the others.

At last, he'd found himself in an examination room just like this one. The doctor who examined him was brusque and methodical. With Neal's legs held apart in the stirrups, the doctor roughly manhandled his genitals and fingered his ass, checking for signs of infection. Neal's squirms and complaints were unacknowledged. Finally, a slave, a man not much older than him, came in to handle the job of removing the hair around Neal's dick, balls, and asshole.

At this point, Neal couldn't help but object. "Whoa," he'd said, "is this really necessary? I'm not sure I'm the hairless type."

But of course, it didn't do any good.

Neal didn't know if the intake procedure was purposely designed to break them down, or if it was just cruel in its efficiency.

The memories were only making him more nervous. He wanted to meet his new owner with confidence.

Trying to distract himself, Neal looked around the room. For the first time, he noticed a folded set of clothes and a pair of flip-flops, which he realized must be for him. The clothes looked slightly more substantial than the shorts he'd worn for most of his stay here. There was a top, for one thing, and the pants looked long. They were light blue and looked like a pair of scrubs or a prison jumpsuit.

It would be good to get dressed. The exam room was freezing. Neal wanted to close his legs, but he didn't dare. The last time he'd been in the stirrups, they'd strapped him in.

Paul left to let Receiving know Neal was ready. Mark took a seat in a chair in the corner. There was nothing for Neal to do but wait, and he was both nervous and curious about what was going to happen. Not wanting to think about the inevitable, he looked at the ceiling and thought about Degas. He imagined himself forging a Degas. Picking out the paints, copying the brush strokes, aging the painting....

He'd spent a lot of time thinking about things like this, lately.

After what felt like a long time, Paul came back.

"The buyer's outside. He'll just be a second."

He'd been addressing Mark, not Neal. But the tension was so thick, Neal had to say something.

Forcing a smile, he said, "About time! I was starting to wonder if he'd changed his mind."

Mark glared at him, but before he could chastise him or strike him with the short switch that hung on his belt, the door opened again.

First, there was the balding man in a cheap suit that Neal recognized as the man who ran the front desk in Receiving. Coming in behind him was Peter Burke.

Neal felt like his heart had stopped. His first thought was that this had nothing to do with his purchase. Burke must have been there to see him, to gloat maybe. And it was just Neal's luck that he was seeing him like this, spread out and exposed. Maybe the guards had misunderstood why he'd come.

"Here he is," the balding man said. "I think you'll be satisfied with his condition."

Peter stared at Neal, and Neal heard a sharp intake of breath. A faint blush spread across his face, and Neal assumed Peter was embarrassed to see him like this. It made Neal feel a little more confident. If Peter was caught-off guard, Neal could maintain some dignity and control.

"Agent Burke," he said, forcing a cheerful tone. "Didn't think I'd see you again so soon."

Peter's gaze had wandered down to the space between Neal's spread legs. When Neal spoke, he looked up into Neal's eyes before quickly turning away.

Ignoring the greeting, he gestured vaguely at Neal's buttocks. "He has some welts. Was he punished, or...?"

Mark spoke up. "Just some light discipline. He was having some trouble keeping his mouth shut yesterday. They'll fade soon." He sounded defensive, perhaps worrying that Neal's condition was being called into question.

"Oh, that's fine." Putting on an awkward smile, Peter said, "I'd be more concerned if you _didn't_ have any trouble with this one." He looked at some papers that he was holding in his hand. "And it says here that he's been tested?"

"Yes," the balding man said, "all slaves get screened for infections. And we can guarantee that he hasn't had sex since he arrived here."

Peter looked up from the paperwork. "What about training?"

"Just basic obedience," the man said. "We don't provide sexual training. The emphasis here is on preparing the slaves for auction, and putting them in the right mindset to _be_ trained. If further training is something you're interested in, we'll be glad to refer you to a reputable company."

"I think we'll be fine for now. Can I see his back?"

The man from Receiving nodded at Neal, and Neal lifted his feet off the stirrups and got down from the table. He turned around so that Peter could see his back.

After a moment, Peter said, "Well, he looks all right. I'm ready to finalize the sale."

Neal listened to all this in a daze. Peter was really his new owner? That was one scenario he hadn't thought of, and he wasn't sure how to feel about it. It wasn't as good as what he was hoping for, but belonging to Peter couldn't be the worst possibility, either. And Neal knew him. Surely he could use that to his advantage.

Now that he thought about it, it made sense. He didn't think there were many restrictions on members of law enforcement purchasing felons. Hell, Neal wouldn't be surprised if his position made it easier for him to get a slave. No wonder he was able to buy him prior to auction.

When he turned around, he saw that Peter's cheeks still had a faint redness to them. But now he looked at Peter's eyes, and he saw signs of something more than embarrassment. Curiosity, maybe. Or arousal. Peter ran his gaze up and down Neal's naked body one more time, and Neal's skin crawled.

While Peter signed some sort of waiver (probably acknowledging that Neal was in satisfactory condition), Neal was allowed to dress in the clothes that had been laid out. They felt like they were two sizes too big, and the pants wanted to fall down. Neal held them up and wished he had some underwear, at least.

Peter continued to sign paperwork at the front desk in Receiving, while Neal looked out the window. He'd only been allowed outside a couple times in the past two weeks, and there were no windows in the slaves' living and training areas. Neal was surprised at how relieved he was to get to look out.

"All right," Peter said. "Guess it's time to take you home."

Neal realized that Peter was talking to him. While Neal looked outside, Peter had come over and was standing beside him. Peter smiled. He attached a leash to Neal's collar and led him to the door.

Neal wracked his mind for something to say. They were in the parking lot, heading for Peter's car, when Neal said, "You really bought me?"

Peter glanced at him. "Better me than a stranger, right?"

Neal didn't know. He didn't know if it was better or not. He'd only been a slave for two weeks, and slavery was something that had never concerned him much before. He'd seen slaves in people's homes, and serving at parties, but they were just there. He felt some sympathy for them, and if anyone asked him, he'd say he didn't agree with slavery. But it was a part of life. Neal had known it could be him someday, if he was ever caught and convicted, but he never really thought that would.

Peter took off the leash when they got to the car. Neal got into the front passenger seat, only belatedly wondering if he was allowed to sit in the front. But Peter didn't complain.

"We just have a quick stop to make, and then I'll take you home. My wife, Elizabeth, wanted to come along today, but she had to meet a client. But you'll meet her later."

Neal already knew a lot about Elizabeth. But he thought it would be unwise to let Peter know how much research he'd done on his life.

"So," Peter said. "I assume while you were in training, you learned what being a slave entails."

"Yeah, I guess I did."

They'd covered a lot: there was the obedience training. And there were a lot of sessions about slaves' rights (and lack of rights), what his owners were allowed to do to him, how to behave at auction, and what would happen when his sentence was over.

But the truth was two weeks of training hadn't done a damn thing to prepare him for slavery. He had no idea what to expect from Peter.

"Did they explain what will happen if you run, or if you hurt your owners in any way?" Peter asked.

Neal swallowed. "I'll be enslaved for life?"

"That's right. I know you're going to want to run, but if you do, you're going to be a slave for a lot longer than four years. Elizabeth and I aren't the sort of people who are going to look for excuses to get your sentence extended, but we won't be able to protect you if you do anything stupid, either."

Neal frowned and looked out the window.

"To be honest," Peter continued, "I don't know if I trust the average slave owner to be able to keep you out of trouble. I think if they sent you to auction on Monday, you'd end up enslaved for life quicker than you imagine."

Neal risked a glance at Peter. "Is that why you bought me? You think you're doing me a favor?"

"No, I bought you because it's something I've wanted for a while now. I started planning for it on the day you were sentenced."

Hearing that was like a punch, but Neal had to give Peter points for honesty. He didn't think he could stand to hear fake sympathy right now.

"But yeah," Peter said after a moment. "I guess I'm hoping you'll see that belonging to me and Elizabeth is a good deal."

"What do you want with me?" Neal asked. "What am I going to do for you and Elizabeth, exactly?"

Peter pursed his lips and hesitated. "You're going to be our slave," he said carefully. "You're going to do exactly what you were sold to do."

"Which is...?" Neal's chest was pounding, but he needed to hear it. He needed more of the blunt honesty he'd heard a moment ago.

Peter sighed. "You'll help out around the house as needed. You might keep Elizabeth company when I'm working late. And you'll see to my needs."

"You mean, have sex with you."

"Yes. Neal, you know full well you were being sold as a sex slave. I shouldn't have to spell that out for you."

Neal leaned toward him. "But—but I have skills! I can cook! I know how to take care of a house, and I've worked as a personal assistant. There's a lot I could do."

"I know. But it's not about your abilities. You've only been sentenced to four years, and most people don't want to spend time and money on a cook or servant that they won't be able to keep long-term. And Elizabeth and I are happy to have some help around the house, but there's just the two of us. We don't need _that_ much help. And I'm not going to have you spend the next four years sitting around my house, feeling sorry for yourself and planning God knows what, while _I'm_ paying for your food and clothes. I wouldn't have bought you without a use in mind."

Neal decided to be frank with him. "Look, you're right: I knew I was going to be sold as a sex slave. I can live with that. But the thing is, I'm not interested in men. I told them I was straight, and I assumed they put that in my file. I'm sorry if you didn't know."

They stopped at a red light, and Peter shook his head sadly. "Neal, I'm sorry, but nobody cares who you're attracted to. _I_ assumed they made that clear to you during training, and I'm sorry if this is a surprise to you."

Neal sat back, processing what Peter had just said. Until now, he'd taken for granted that he'd find a way to twist this bout of misfortune to his advantage. Suddenly, he wasn't so sure.

Peter, sensing his unease, reached over and patted his knee.

"Hey, now, chin up. Don't worry; I'll be patient and gentle with you." He smiled. "And right now, we have to get you a new collar. I promised Elizabeth I wouldn't bring you home in that standard-issue thing."

 

* * *

 

The auction venue where Neal would have been sold was only a five minute drive from the processing center. No auctions were being held today, and the parking lot for the large, stadium-like building was mostly deserted. Peter pulled in and parked by a small, unmarked shop that was attached to the larger building.

Neal already had a good idea of where they were going. He knew auction houses usually had shops attached to try to sell new slave owners accessories to go with their purchases. That must have been what Peter had in mind when he talked about getting a new collar.

It was just after nine o'clock, now, and the store had just opened. A bell jingled on the door when they stepped inside. There was a man sitting at a desk behind the front counter, working on a computer. He looked up and said he'd be with them in a moment. Another man, dressed in a security guard uniform, wandered lazily out from behind a curtain that concealed a back room. His eyes lingered on Neal.

Neal flashed the guard a smile. It was met with a bored, stony stare. Neal got the sense that the guard was there to handle uncooperative slaves.

He could see why they anticipated trouble. No matter what form of humiliation a slave owner wanted to inflict, the store could provide the means. Along one wall was a case full of shackles, cuffs, and chains. The opposite wall held paddles, crops, and switches. A discreet shelf in the back was filled with what looked like a collection of anal plugs and other sexual objects.

Peter focused on the glass cases in the front of the store, which contained a variety of collars. Neal decided it would be best to join him. His best bet for maintaining dignity was to act like none of this fazed him. But he didn't think he could keep up the act if he kept looking at the paddles to his left. He hoped the collar was the only thing Peter intended to buy.

The shopkeeper came out from behind the counter. "What can I help you with today?" he asked Peter.

"I'd like to get a new collar for him," he said, nodding toward Neal. "Could we try some on?"

"Of course! Did you have anything in mind?"

Peter looked at the selection of collars and hesitated. "I don't know...something that looks nicer than what he's wearing now. Something comfortable, preferably."

Neal wondered how relieved he should be that Peter cared about his comfort.

"Do all of these include GPS tracking?" Peter asked.

"Most do," the shopkeeper said. "We do have some more economical models that don't have it. But since the law requires slaves to have trackers now, getting it with the collar is usually the best option. Saves you the trouble of having to put another tracker on him, or having him microchipped."

"Of course," Peter said absently. He was still studying the collars. As he surveyed the large number of options, he started to fidget.

Peter obviously wasn't good at this. Neal suspected he was bad at buying jewelry, too. Neal, of course, was good at choosing accessories. But he'd be damned if he was going to offer assistance here.

"It's really my wife who has good taste with things like this," Peter said. "She was supposed to come along today...."

"Do you know what she had in mind?" the shopkeeper asked.

Peter shrugged. "I don't know. She's an event planner; she cares about presentation."

The shopkeeper's face lit up with understanding. "Ah, I see. Well, these are some popular models, here...."

It was common for slaves to serve as waiters at large parties. Neal realized that when Peter talked about Elizabeth having good taste when it came to collars, he probably meant it literally.

The shopkeeper led Neal to sit on a stool. Then he went behind the counter and fetched a large key ring. Neal recognized the strangely shaped keys as the ones that opened slaved collars. The shopkeeper quickly found one that would unlock Neal's collar.

Neal relished the cool lightness when the cheap brass collar came off. It was a pleasure that lasted all too briefly, as the shopkeeper and Peter tried a succession of collars on him.

The first one was too tight, and constricted his throat when the shopkeeper locked it on him. When they tried a size larger, it was too loose. Another model was so wide and bulky that Neal couldn't bend his neck to look down.

At first, he hesitated in voicing his thoughts. He was determined not to speak up or participate unless he needed to.

But then Peter gave him a warning look and said, "You'd better help me find one that fits well, because I'm not going to spend money on another one."

Finally, they chose a lightweight titanium collar with discreet casing on the back that housed the GPS tracker. The shopkeeper looked at Neal when he bragged that the tracker was tamper-proof.

It took several more minutes to finish the sale. Then the shopkeeper took the collar into the back room to have it engraved with Neal's ID number.

While they waited, Peter said, "Not cheap, but this should last us a while. And anyway, I got a good deal on you, so I guess I can't complain."

That piqued Neal's interest. He was still curious about the circumstances of his purchase. "Oh, yeah?"

Peter shrugged. "I've put in a lot of good years at the Bureau. And catching _you_...." He smiled. "Let's just say my hard work has been recognized."

"What are you saying? That I'm your bonus?"

"No, not a bonus. I just reserved you and got a discount."

Neal frowned. He'd assumed Peter got some preferential treatment, but now he realized that he was Peter's reward for catching him. It might have been poetic if Neal could appreciate it. Instead, he was suddenly aware that he was tired and hungry.

The shopkeeper came back with the collar and showed it to Peter for his approval. Then, he fastened it around Neal's neck. Neal sighed. He probably wouldn't be without a collar again until his sentence was over.

When the shopkeeper set the key ring down on the counter, Neal looked at the keys. He may not have known that much about slavery, but he knew about restraints. And he knew that there were only a few kinds of keys that unlocked all slave collars. Because collars were required at almost all times, private owners didn't generally have keys. But licensed individuals, hospitals, and members of law enforcement did.

He bet Peter had access to keys. Peter might even have a set of his own somewhere.

As Peter led him back out to the car, Neal filed that thought away in the back of his mind.

 

* * *

 

Neal had seen the Burkes' house before. He'd tracked down the address when he'd first learned Peter was after him. He'd always believed in knowing his enemy.

But he hadn't done more than ride past in a cab. Now, he was actually inside.

Peter led him up two flights of stairs. On the second floor, he pointed out the bathroom. Then, on the third floor, Peter opened a door and said, "This will be your room."

Neal didn't know what to expect, and was happy to see that it was a proper bedroom, with a bed, nightstand, and dresser. After spending the last couple weeks sleeping on a mat on the floor, a real bed was going to be a treat.

He tried not to show his relief.

"This is our guest room," Peter explained. "To be honest, I think maybe we're being a little too generous. But you need somewhere to sleep and keep your clothes, and it's not like we have many guests, anyway."

Peter opened the closet door. There were a few shirts and a pair of pants hanging inside, and a pair of tennis shoes on the floor.

"We got you some clothes. Just basics for now. They should all be the right size. There's more in the dresser." He paused and added, "Why don't you go ahead and put something on?"

Neal _was_ happy at the prospect of clothes, even if the shirts they'd given him looked bland and cheap. Still, he grabbed a light blue t-shirt and the pair of khaki pants from the closet. In the dresser, he found underwear, socks, a pair of sweats, and some jeans. As far as a wardrobe went, it was pretty sparse. But Neal suspected Peter didn't see it that way.

Once Neal had an outfit collected on the bed, he prepared to get undressed. He paused and looked up at Peter. Peter was standing in the doorway with his hands on his hips, showing no intention of leaving.

Not wanting to make an issue of it, Neal peeled off his shirt. When he took off his pants, he instinctively turned away to give himself more privacy. Evidently, it was the wrong thing to do. Peter huffed.

"They should've taught you not to do that," he said.

Neal froze for a second and then reached for his new clothes. He didn't say anything.

"And you haven't addressed me correctly once today. You're supposed to call your owner 'Master' or 'Sir.'"

"Guess I assumed you weren't the type of guy who demands a fancy title."

"It's not your place to _assume_ anything."

Neal pulled the t-shirt over his head. When his eyes were uncovered, he saw Peter staring at him with an appraising look.

"You know," Peter said, "they wouldn't have marked you for sale if you hadn't passed the training. But I guess I shouldn't be surprised you managed to con the trainers into thinking you were ready."

Neal forced a smile. "You say 'con.' I say 'learned to meet their expectations.'"

But it had been a con, of course. That was how he'd gotten through it. He'd resisted training at first. He'd talked back to the trainers when they made him kneel or kiss their boots. But then he'd decided to play the part. He enjoyed letting them think they were breaking him. It had nothing to do with being tired of getting disciplined.

It wasn't his fault that they were so eager to send the slaves off to auction that they bought his act.

Peter frowned. "You sound pretty pleased with yourself. Tell me: what exactly did you expect would happen after training ended? Did you think you'd get out of this somehow? That one of your friends would get you out, maybe? Did you think that none of the stuff they taught you would apply anymore?"

Honestly, he had. Part of him was still convinced he would find a way to get free before the end of his sentence. And stuff like kneeling and calling people "Master" was so overly-theatrical that he hardly believed anyone would expect it in real life.

Neal didn't answer Peter. He finished getting dressed, and then sat on the bed so he could put the tennis shoes on.

Then he said, "I'm not going to have sex with you. If that means you sell me, then fine."

Neal saw no possibility of giving Peter what he wanted. It was one of Neal's few weaknesses as a conman: he had no problem seducing someone if he thought they were attractive, and Neal found many women attractive. But if he wasn't attracted to someone, there was no hope of any enthusiasm, real or feigned. And Neal had never been attracted to a man.

"So, you'd rather be with some strange man who doesn't know you?"

"I don't know," Neal snapped. "Maybe I would!"

Didn't Peter get it? If Neal didn't have any choice, maybe it would be easier if he could simply be Enslaved Felon #05-03231. With Peter, he could never be anything but Neal Caffrey. And as much as Neal wanted to keep his identity, as much as he knew Peter had a point about it being better, he didn't know if he could reconcile who he was with who had to be.

Peter frowned. "Well, we're not selling you. You'll have to get used to it." His voice had grown softer, however.

Subdued, Neal looked down at his new clothes. They fit pretty well, and the shoes were surprisingly good quality.

"I'm going to make myself some lunch," Peter said. "You should eat, too."

Neal nodded. As Peter turned to leave, Neal said, "Thanks for the clothes. Master."

Peter stopped and turned around. "No problem. And...and you don't have to call me 'Master,' okay?"

Neal nodded again. After Peter left, he sat on the bed for a few more minutes, and rested his head in his hands.

 

* * *

 

When Neal worked up the confidence to go downstairs, he found Peter in the kitchen. Peter had a bowl of something on the counter, and the dog, Satchmo, was sitting at his feet.

When Peter heard Neal approach, he pointed at the bowl and said, "You want some?"

Neal glanced at the contents of the bowl. It was some sort of pinkish meat product. When the scent hit his nose, he involuntarily made a face.

"What is that? Dog food?" He froze. "You want me to eat dog food?"

He hadn't thought anything could be worse than the food he got during his training. But maybe he was wrong.

Peter narrowed his eyes. He looked at Neal for a moment as though he didn't know what to say.

"I can't even tell if you're being serious right now," Peter said, shaking his head. "This isn't dog food. It's deviled ham. It's _good_!"

Neal looked down at Satchmo, who was wagging his tail hopefully. "Yeah? Does he know it's not dog food?"

"I guess Satchmo and I just have better taste than you do. If you don't want any, fine. Not my problem."

Neal watched Peter make a sandwich for himself. At least he didn't want Neal to make it for him—Neal didn't know if he could stand the smell.

Just then, the front door opened. Satchmo gave one last longing look at the deviled ham and trotted off in the direction of the door.

Still focusing on his sandwich, Peter called out, "Hey, Hon."

Neal recognized Elizabeth Burke. His research into Peter's life had been thorough. But he'd never met her before, and he regarded her cautiously.

She came into the kitchen and set her purse on the counter. She gave Peter a peck on the cheek and turned to look at Neal.

"Hi there!" she said. "I see you're getting settled in." Looking at Peter she said, "He looks great. I see the clothes fit."

"Yeah," Peter said. "What about the collar?"

Elizabeth looked at Neal appraisingly and smiled. "Very nice."

"Glad to hear it. You know I don't know anything about buying that sort of thing...."

Elizabeth stepped closer to Neal and lifted her hand. She hesitated, and then reached out and adjusted the D-ring on his collar. When he didn't flinch, she gave him a smile and a pat on the shoulder.

"I know you're still getting used to everything," Elizabeth told him, "but if you have any questions, feel free to ask. We don't mind."

Neal smiled back at her. "I'll do that."

She looked at Peter and the sandwich he was making. "Lunch, huh? Is Neal eating?"

"I offered him some of this, but he didn't want any."

Elizabeth frowned. "Well, is he in the mood for something else? You know how they feed slaves—deviled ham might be a little much for him right now."

That was something Neal hadn't considered. He'd been looking forward to having decent food again. But Elizabeth was right—he'd been eating modest servings of cereal, mush, and bland protein shakes for the past couple weeks. Occasionally, they got a treat such as bologna or rubbery eggs. Even if he were allowed to have it, he probably couldn't stomach caviar or lobster right now, let alone deviled ham.

Even though he sensed the Burkes intended for him to eat the same food as them, he couldn't help but feel dejected by yet another lost pleasure.

Elizabeth opened the refrigerator and looked inside for a moment. "We have some angel hair pasta," she said. "That might be good for you right now. Would you like some?"

"Please." He _was_ hungry. He hadn't eaten in over twelve hours.

As it turned out, though, his stomach really did need time to adjust. He only managed to eat two-thirds of the bowl of pasta Elizabeth gave him. When he realized he couldn't eat any more, there was a moment of panic. During training, they had to finish what they were given or they wouldn't get anything at the next meal. But the Burkes didn't seem to care about the wasted food.

Elizabeth made an effort to talk to him. "Is your room okay?" she asked. "I know it isn't what you're used to...."

"It's great," Neal said.

"It's okay if you're disappointed," she told him. "Peter and I understand that this is a new life for you."

Neal knew he should try harder to make a good first impression. After all, making people like him was his forte. But it was tough when she seemed to know more about him and his situation than he did about her and her plans for him.

The next several hours were awkward. After some perfunctory conversation, Elizabeth turned her attention to Peter. Neal petted Satchmo and listened while they talked about Elizabeth's meeting and some event she was organizing.

Then, when they must have thought he was out of earshot, he heard them talking about _him_.

"Of course he's having a rough time," he heard Elizabeth say quietly. "He's probably shell-shocked right now."

Peter had been about to respond when they noticed Neal's presence and stopped talking.

At that point, Neal casually excused himself, saying he wanted to go to his room. Thankfully, they didn’t object.

He stayed in his bedroom until evening. There was nothing to do in there, but he needed to think about how he was going to navigate this new situation. He'd pulled a lot of cons, but being someone's slave was entirely new to him.

He didn't come downstairs again until Peter came up and said they'd ordered Chinese for dinner. Peter went out to pick up the food, and Neal was left alone with Elizabeth.

As soon as she saw him wander downstairs, she pointed him in the direction of the silverware drawer and enlisted his help in setting the table.

"I hope you don't mind Chinese," she said. "I thought you might like fried rice."

"No, sounds great."

"Has Peter told you much yet, about what you'll be doing around here?"

"We've talked." He said stiffly. He didn't offer anything more. He had no idea which "duties" Elizabeth was referring to, and he didn't want to be the one to bring up sex.

"Well, I think we'll just take it a day at a time. No need to overwhelm you."

Peter returned with Chinese take-out boxes and a bag from a pharmacy.

They didn't object to him sitting at the table. Neal picked at his rice and ate as much as he could. When all three of them had finished, Neal was about to help clear the plates, thinking it would be expected of him. But Elizabeth pulled a prescription bottle out of the pharmacy bag and brought it over to table.

"Neal, they gave Peter a prescription of Valium for you. We thought it'd be a good idea to have it filled."

Neal first looked at Elizabeth and then Peter. Elizabeth was looking back at him hopefully, and Peter was putting away leftovers, ignoring the exchange. Then Neal looked at the pill bottle skeptically.

"That's all right. I think I'll survive."

"Well, we won't make you take it, but I think you should. There's only enough for a week. It'll help you relax while you get used to things here." She glanced at Peter as though she hoped he'd back her up, but he was still choosing to stay out of it.

Neal's nerves must have been showing more than he thought, if she believed he needed the pills. And if his nerves were showing, maybe he _did_ need them.

He didn't want to let his guard down. But then again, he'd been a bundle of nerves for weeks, now. And he couldn't remember the last decent night's sleep he'd had. He shook out one of the pills, and Elizabeth smiled.

He was glad for his choice when he lay down. Curling up under the sheet, he just wanted to sleep and not think about what would happen when he woke up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neal starts to adjust to the Burke household.

Over the next few days, Neal saw surprisingly little of Peter.

As part of his adjustment period, Neal was allowed to sleep in. Peter would leave for work early, before Neal got up. However, Neal, who was unable to rest easily with or without the low-dose Valium Elizabeth wanted him to take, was always awake to hear Peter's alarm go off in the room below.

Peter's morning routine was reliable. After his alarm went off, Neal could hear him coming up the stairs. He'd crack open Neal's door and peek inside. Neal would shut his eyes and take shallow breaths, and if Peter realized he wasn't actually asleep, he didn't say anything. Instead, he'd quietly close the door and go downstairs.

Next, Neal could hear Elizabeth get up. Once she and Peter went down to the first floor, Neal couldn't hear much. But he suspected Peter left the house by seven-thirty.

If Peter and Elizabeth didn't care about when he got up, Neal saw no reason to let them know he was awake. He stayed in bed until nine, when he was confident that Peter was gone and Elizabeth was busy with her own work. He didn't know if it would be this way forever, or if they would want him to get up early to prepare breakfast. For now, they seemed content having the mornings to themselves.

The housework Elizabeth gave him to do didn't even come close to filling his day. But she didn't seem to mind if he looked around the house. The only room Neal wasn't allowed in was the master bedroom, so he took the opportunity to learn the layout of the rest of the house and peruse the bookshelves.

It was the first time in weeks that Neal had a chance to relax, but it wasn't much of a relief. He thought a lot.

He wondered if Kate knew what had happened to him. She knew he'd been enslaved, but did she know where he ended up? And Mozzie—was Moz keeping tabs on him? Part of him hoped they didn't know where he was.

Of course, he knew that in terms of treatment, his situation was better than it could be. He had his own room and bed. He was allowed to eat the same food Peter and Elizabeth ate. Coffee was a reward, but he only had to wash the dishes to get it. In the bathroom, there was a box marked "Neal" that contained soap, shampoo, a toothbrush, and other small necessities.

None of that made his situation feel _good_. And the possibility that Peter would make good on his promise of demanding sex was always there. Though, with the long days Peter spent at work, Neal began to wonder if he even had time to include Neal in his sex life.

There was no long list of rules, but Neal gradually learned their expectations. He was allowed to watch TV with them, and he was allowed to sit on the sofa, but he got the sense from Peter's demeanor that he preferred it if Neal sat on the floor. Neal thought about sitting on the sofa anyway, just to annoy him, but in the end he decided it was better to save his defiance for something more important. He swallowed his pride and sat cross-legged on the floor.

While they watched the nightly news one evening, Elizabeth tentatively ran a hand through Neal's hair, as though she were petting Satchmo. If it had been Peter, he would have moved away. But with Elizabeth, he didn't want to be hasty. He didn't expect charm and cooperation to net him any large gains with Peter, but he wasn't sure about Elizabeth.

And besides, she was the one he spent most of his time with.

Elizabeth had already let him borrow a couple art books from the living room. At least he had something to entertain himself with.

He usually went to bed early, as soon as he finished cleaning up from dinner and watching the news. He didn't fall asleep until much later, but he liked to get ready for bed while he had free use of the bathroom. If he waited, he would need to let Peter and Elizabeth use it first.

One night, after he'd been there almost a week, he couldn't sleep. He'd looked through page after page of early-twentieth century American art. He'd even done some sketching of his own, with some paper he'd collected and a pencil he'd found in one of his nightstand drawers.

According to the ancient clock radio that was beside his bed, it was twelve-thirty. He got up and quietly went downstairs to the kitchen. Satchmo was stretched out with his chin resting on the floor. His eyes followed Neal, but he didn't move.

Neal poured himself a glass of water and leaned on the kitchen island. He thought tonight could actually be a good night for the Valium, but he didn't know where they kept it. And besides, he reminded himself that it was better to be restless. If he was restless, then he could think about how he could improve his situation. He didn't want to surrender so quickly.

Satchmo perked up, and Neal heard someone coming downstairs. Before he could react, he heard Peter's voice.

"Neal? You down here?"

"In the kitchen," he said.

Peter came in. Neal realized it was the first time he'd seen Peter in his pajamas.

"I thought I heard you come downstairs. What's going on?"

Neal lifted his glass. "I was thirsty. You never said I was restricted to my room."

Peter blinked. "No. No, I never said that. Just making sure everything's all right."

Neal knew better than to imagine Peter was checking up on him out of concern.

"If you're worried about what I'm up to," Neal said, "why keep me? I thought people bought slaves to make their lives easier."

Peter snorted contemptuously. "Oh, I have no delusions about you making my life easier. And I'm not that worried about what you get up to. I'm sure you're already plotting in that head of yours. But you're equipped with GPS, and if anything goes wrong in this house, you're the first suspect. That's the whole idea of slavery, Neal. You don't have the power, you're not a threat."

"And yet, you're getting out of bed to check up on me."

Peter didn't deny it.

Neal took advantage of Peter's silence to ask something.

"Hey, I've been thinking," he said. "Do you know if Kate's okay? I haven't had a chance to talk to her since...since my sentencing."

It hurt his pride to ask, and he wondered if he was revealing himself too much by doing so. But he had to know. Eventually, he could try to send Kate a message, but who knew when that would be? Peter hadn't even let him out of the house yet.

Peter sighed and gave him a warning look. "If she's smart, she's staying out of trouble. But you know you can't have contact."

"That's not true," Neal said. "I know some owners let their slaves maintain ties with friends. There's no law—"

"Okay, then it's our rule. Elizabeth and I have talked about this, and we honestly believe letting you have any contact now would just complicate things, and make this harder for you. But who knows? Maybe down the road, if you earn it, we can talk."

Neal glared at him. "I didn't ask to contact her. I just wanted to know if she's okay."

"Afraid I don’t have an answer for you."

Neal wondered if that was true. He'd wondered a lot if the FBI was still keeping tabs on her.

Peter reached down to scratch Satchmo's ears, and then turned to leave. "I'm getting some sleep. You should, too."

Neal nodded. After Peter left, he finished his water. Then he went back upstairs. He'd thought about staying up for a while, maybe reading the newspaper or looking at more of the books in the living room. But he knew that Peter was probably waiting to hear him on the stairs.

 

* * *

 

The following afternoon, Neal was vacuuming the living room when the doorbell rang. He cocked his head, unsure for a second if he'd actually heard it. Realizing he had, he turned off the vacuum and went to the door.

There was a delivery man carrying two boxes. Peering over the top of the smaller of the two, he said, "I've got a delivery for Elizabeth Burke."

Neal reached out for the packages. "Thanks. I'll give them to her right away."

As he was closing the door with his foot, Elizabeth came downstairs.

"Oh, good! I was hoping those would come today. Put them on the dining room table, will you?"

He did that, and then stepped away as Elizabeth inspected the packages. He didn't want to start vacuuming again and disturb her.

She opened up the boxes and, after minute, turned and addressed Neal.

"Forget the vacuuming for now. I have a new job for you. Come here."

Neal walked back to the table and looked in the open boxes.

"These," Elizabeth said, pointing to the larger box, "are programs for the gallery opening I'm helping with. And these"—she pointed to the other box—"are inserts that need to go inside the programs. I need you to do it for me. It doesn't have to be finished today, but definitely before Saturday. Okay?"

"Sure. No problem."

Elizabeth patted him on the shoulder and left him with the boxes. Neal sat down at the table, feeling like he'd been hit by a whirlwind. He didn't mind having a task to do, but he wasn't used to being ordered around. And Elizabeth was more confident about giving him orders than Peter was. Peter often waited until he did something wrong to say anything, and when he issued an order, there was always a touch of warning in his voice, like he was expecting rebellion.

Neal supposed it made sense. Peter had chased him for years. And most of Peter's exposure to slaves was probably in the form of angry, depressed criminals being dragged off to processing.

Elizabeth, on the other hand, acted like it was a given that Neal would listen to her. It would seem naïve if she weren't so confident. He imagined she worked around slaves a lot, both those who belonged to her wealthier clients and the ones who worked as servers at some of her events.

Neal looked at one of the programs. From listening to Elizabeth talk to Peter, he knew the basics of this job. An artist she knew from years ago was having an opening, and she was coordinating the reception.

Looking at the pictures of watercolors that embellished the brochure, he felt a pang of longing. He wondered when he'd go to an opening again.

He wondered if anyone would notice if he took one of the programs. He was sure they must have printed extra. He might not have been allowed to go, but he could pretend....

He set aside one of the programs, and got to work. According to the invoice inside one of the boxes, there were 150 programs. But without anything else to focus on, it didn't take Neal long to get through them.

When Elizabeth returned and saw that he was nearly finished, she said, "Wow, done already?"

"Yes, ma'am. Almost."

"I guess we need to find more things to occupy your time...."

She walked over to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water. "This is great, Neal. Now I can drop those off at the gallery tomorrow." She leaned against the counter and raised the glass to her lips. She seemed to think for a moment, and then said, "I'll tell you what: if you want to help me out some more, you can come with me tomorrow. It'd be nice if you could carry the box for me."

Neal perked up at the mention of an outing. To a gallery, no less. He didn't know if Elizabeth honestly wanted his help or if she was trying to do something nice for him, but it didn't matter.

"I'd be happy to help," he said with a smile.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, he got up early. The Burkes hadn't given him much to choose from, but he tried to dress up as much as he could. He had a dark blue button-down shirt that looked nice enough with his khaki pants.

Peter was still eating breakfast when Neal came downstairs. He looked up as Neal came in and said, "Look who decided to join us this morning."

Neal smiled and made a beeline for the kitchen. "Can I have some cereal?" he asked, and Peter nodded.

He wasn't sure what Elizabeth had told Peter about their planned outing, so he thought it best not to say much.

But she'd obviously told him, because as Neal got a bowl out of the cupboard, Peter said, "You know what will happen if you don't behave for Elizabeth today, don't you?"

"I'll be in trouble?" Neal said, trying to keep his tone light.

"Yep. And it'll be the last time either of us takes you out for a while. So do yourself a favor and behave."

"I'm sure he'll do just fine," Elizabeth said, fondly.

Neal sat at the table and poured himself some cereal. He didn't have a big appetite, though. His whole body felt wired, just like before pulling a con. Slavery was one long series of cons. Going to the gallery was special, even if he couldn't attend the opening and reception later in the week. But it was also a chance to get out of the house. He needed to play his cards right and make the most of it.

So far, except to take out the garbage or go into the back yard, Neal had only left the house once. A few days ago, Peter took Neal with him when he took Satchmo for a walk. It had seemed like a great idea at first, but then Peter had insisted on attaching the humiliating leash to Neal's collar and holding it in one hand while he held Satchmo's leash in the other.

Neal had higher hopes for this outing.

He and Elizabeth left not long after Peter went to work. As Elizabeth drove them out of the neighborhood and then out of Brooklyn, Neal casually paid attention to the streets they passed.

In Manhattan, he soaked up the sights, relishing the opportunity to see some of his favorite parts of New York again.

They parked two blocks from the gallery. Elizabeth led the way while Neal carried the programs. He held the box up to his chin so it covered his collar. He didn't want to be seen as a slave near his old stomping grounds.

The gallery was new—it had opened a couple months before Neal's arrest, and he never got a chance to check it out. He tried to catch glimpses as Elizabeth led him inside and to the back.

The woman who met them ignored Neal. After Neal set the programs down on a table in the back room, Elizabeth turned to him and said, "I have a little business to finish up, and then we'll head on. Why don't you wait for me out there?"

Neal readily complied. Waiting for her "out there" meant he could look at some of the artwork. There were a few others in the gallery, and while Neal browsed, he subtly adjusted his shirt so that it covered up his collar.

Slaves weren't allowed to conceal their collars, but that didn't mean they had to be blatantly obvious. Anyone who looked at him head on would see the metal around his neck, but there was no reason for all the gallery patrons to know what he was.

He was immersed in a painting when Elizabeth emerged. "You ready?" she asked.

He wasn't, but he knew the question was just a formality. He didn't want to push it by asking for more time.

During the drive back, she said, "Thanks for helping me out today."

"You think Peter will trust me more now?"

"Don't worry about Peter. He's just being careful."

"He didn't seem too crazy about me going today," Neal said carefully.

Elizabeth hesitated. "He's worried that exposing you to stuff like this is a bad idea."

"What? He thinks I'm going to steal a painting?"

"Well, more like pick someone's pocket. Or meet up with someone you knew. But I'm not too worried."

He was silent, and after a moment Elizabeth continued. "It's not just about what you might _do_. Peter thinks that too many connections to your old life will make this whole adjustment more difficult for you."

"You don't agree?"

"I don't think we can expect you to stop caring about the things you like. And besides, what good is having a slave if you can't use their skills? I need someone who can help me select caterers and give me advice on color schemes."

Neal liked the sound of that. If he had to be a slave, he could at least perform some duties that he would have done voluntarily.

That evening, Elizabeth had him help make pork chops and mashed potatoes for dinner. While Neal peeled the potatoes, the phone rang and Elizabeth answered it. He could make out from her words that it must have been Peter.

"Okay," she said, "I'll save you some dinner."

When she hung up, she said, "Peter's going to be late tonight. He's working a tough case."

They continued cooking, but when dinner was finished, Neal said, "Will Peter mind if I eat before he gets home?"

It was a stupid thing that had just occurred to him. He vaguely remembered being told in training that he shouldn't eat before his masters.

"Peter's used to eating late. Don't worry about it."

Neal joined Elizabeth at the table. While they ate, Elizabeth told him about the upcoming reception at the gallery, and about a wedding job she'd just gotten.

It was nice to talk to her, and be talked to. While neither Elizabeth nor Peter ignored Neal outright, they usually talked to each other during meals and there was an unspoken implication that Neal would be out of line to try to participate.

After dinner, Elizabeth helped him with the dishes. Then, when they were finished and Neal was drying his hands with one of the dish towels, she rubbed his back.

"It's nice to have some time together, isn't it? We haven't had a chance to get to know each other much."

Neal turned around, and Elizabeth moved her hand to his cheek. She waited for a moment, as if to gauge his reaction, and then kissed his lips.

Neal had been half expecting this, and though his heart started pounding at her touch, it wasn't entirely bad.

Elizabeth was a beautiful woman, and Neal could almost ignore the circumstances. He thought briefly about trying to refuse anyway, more to defend his dignity than because he didn't want to be with her.

But he wanted to encourage her generosity. And when sleeping with his masters might be his only opportunity for sex over the next four years, wanting Elizabeth was convenient. He knew he'd never want Peter.

He smiled and kissed Elizabeth back. He put a hand on her hip and felt her lean against it.

"Let's go upstairs," she said. "I think we have a little time before Peter gets home."

He followed her up to the master bedroom. He stood in the doorway while she walked in and turned on a bedside lamp, casting the room in soft light.

Neal looked around. He hadn't seen their bedroom yet. Like the rest of the house, it was neat but not formal. Elizabeth sat on the edge of the bed and slipped off her shoes.

"Come on in," she said, patting the bed beside her.

Neal joined her on the bed. Looking around some more, he noticed a few books about slave training sitting on the nightstand. He tried to guess who slept on that side of the bed, and whose books they were.

Elizabeth slowly unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it open to expose his chest. She ran a warm hand over his abs and he shivered slightly.

"Gorgeous," she said quietly, with a smile.

Neal kissed her. He was willing to let her take the lead, but it felt natural to be an active participant.

As he helped Elizabeth out of her top, he idly wondered what Peter would think if he came home and found them like this. Yes, Peter had implied this was part of Neal's duties. But Neal wasn't too quick to assume that Peter would actually be okay with it in practice. The last thing he wanted was to be punished by a jealous husband.

But he knew that bringing this up now would kill the mood and probably sour Elizabeth on him. And he reminded himself, again, that Elizabeth was the one he had to spend most of his afternoons with.

Elizabeth wiggled out of her jeans and slipped her panties off. She lay back, and Neal knelt between her legs. She was naked except for a lacy black bra, and her chest rose and fell in anticipation.

"How's your mouth?" she asked with a twinkle in her eye.

"I haven't had any complaints."

She smiled. "Show me."

He bent down and kissed the inside of her thighs. Then he gently ran his tongue across her clit.

Elizabeth ran her hand through his hair. He felt her nails against his scalp.

Judging by her soft moans, Elizabeth wasn't difficult to please. Her breathing quickened and she gently rocked against his tongue.

She didn't offer instruction, so he tried to keep doing whatever got a reaction. After going down on her for a few minutes, she sighed contentedly and pulled away.

Neal sat up. "Y-you're done? Did you--?"

She reached out to cup his cheek in her hand. "It was wonderful. You were great."

Elizabeth pulled him close, and he lay down with his head against her stomach. He closed his eyes and took a deep, strained breath.

"Are you okay?" she asked softly, petting his hair.

"Yeah," he said. "You're great, too."

"I'm glad you think so." She nudged his still-clothed groin with her foot. "Maybe later, I can show you some of _my_ skills."

He smiled, but he'd been overcome with a sudden, aching feeling of loss. He missed Kate.

Neal could hear the front door open downstairs. Peter's voice called out, "El? I'm home."

Neal tensed. Elizabeth sat up and yelled, "I'm upstairs. Just a second."

She squirmed out from under Neal and said, "Hand me those clothes on the chair, will you?"

He looked at the chair in the corner and saw a tank top and a pair of cotton boxers. While he got up and retrieved them, Elizabeth took off her bra and tossed it aside. She took the clothes from Neal and quickly pulled them on before giving him a peck on the cheek.

"We'll do this again soon. I promise."

With that, she left the room and went downstairs. Neal looked around and, after a second of deliberation, straightened the quilt on the bed before quietly hurrying from the room.

He went straight to the bathroom. He rinsed his mouth, and then looked at his sorry state in the mirror. His shirt was in disarray, and his dick was uncomfortably hard against the fly of his pants. He undid his belt and pants and pulled his erection out. Leaning against the cool tile wall, he quickly jerked off into a tissue, picturing Elizabeth. He closed his eyes and listened to the pounding of his heart.

After he washed up, he went upstairs. He had little desire to see Peter or watch the news with him and Elizabeth tonight. It wasn't like he couldn't face them right now—he was a conman, for crying out loud—but he wasn't in the mood to try.

As it turned out, Peter and Elizabeth weren't in the mood to stay up, either. He heard them come up to bed earlier than usual. A few minutes later, he heard soft laughter and creaking wood.

They were making love.

Neal listened with rapt, uncomfortable interest.

Now it occurred to him that Elizabeth had wanted him for foreplay. No wonder she'd been quick to stop him, when she was looking forward to Peter coming home.

Neal knew it would be stupid to be offended over it. Besides, it was best for everyone that Elizabeth and Peter were so smitten. Even if Neal would have preferred not to hear it from his bedroom.

Wishing he had some headphones, he tried to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter begins to introduce Neal to his duties as a pleasure slave.

Neal quickly realized that Peter _did_ know about him and Elizabeth. In fact, the whole thing seemed to add fresh energy to their love life.

The next morning, Peter's alarm went off at six as usual, but he didn't get up. Neal listened for several minutes for the sound of the master bedroom door opening, or Peter's footsteps on the stairs.

Finally, Neal got up and crept downstairs. As he passed the master bedroom, he heard soft moans from inside. Shaking his head in disbelief, he quietly went down to the first floor.

Since he was up, he might as well make some breakfast. He was getting sick of cereal. He found some fresh eggs in the refrigerator and, hoping they wouldn't mind him using them up, prepared to make scrambled eggs.

Eventually, he heard the shower running. Peter rushed downstairs at seven-fifteen, still buttoning his sleeves as he came into the kitchen. His eyes brightened when he saw the eggs.

"Breakfast! Good job, Neal. This saves me time. I'm running late."

Neal raised his eyebrows. "I heard."

Peter glanced at him, but didn't seem to care what Neal had heard.

Peter ate standing at the kitchen counter. Neal crossed his arms and watched as Peter shoveled his food in his mouth and gulped down a glass of orange juice.

Elizabeth came down a few minutes later. Her hair, still damp from the shower, was pinned back.

Peter was just finishing his food. After he put the dishes in the sink, Elizabeth came over, wrapped her arms around him, and kissed him.

"I wish you could call in sick," she said.

Peter seemed to seriously consider it for a moment. Then his eyebrows knit together and he got a regretful look in his eye. "I know. But I can't. It's this case, and—"

Elizabeth put a finger on his lips, hushing him. "I know. You're just going to have to make it up to me when you get home."

Neal retreated as they started kissing. It was one thing to have to listen to them. Seeing it was a whole other matter. He decided to get out of there before they decided to go for round three on the kitchen island.

Over the next few days, sex with Elizabeth became a regular thing. It was a mostly welcome diversion.

They never had intercourse. That, apparently, was something she preferred to do with Peter. But invariably, she would take time in the afternoon or early evening to take Neal upstairs and have him finger her or eat her out. He quickly learned what she liked, and how to bring her to orgasm.

Since she was pleased with him, she usually let him get off afterward, if there was time. She seemed to like watching him jerk off, and sometimes she would do the job herself, putting him at the mercy of her deft hand.

Peter didn't openly acknowledge what was going on, but he seemed aware of it. At dinner, he and Elizabeth would share glances and smiles, and Neal would catch Peter looking at him with an approving look.

Finally, one evening, Peter said something. Neal was sitting on the living room floor, and Peter was on the sofa watching TV. Elizabeth had run upstairs, leaving them alone.

"I'm glad to hear you're been good for El," Peter said.

"Thanks, I guess," Neal said, unsure of what else to say to that.

"We're both pleased. Keep it up."

Gradually, as the awkwardness started to wear off, Neal was a little flattered. Getting attention, and being desirable, never failed to please him. Even Peter's voyeuristic enjoyment of the proceedings didn't bother him much. Peter could appreciate Neal's sexual abilities from afar all he wanted, as long as he kept his distance.

And if they were pleased, that meant more privileges. They were already letting him take Satchmo out for walks by himself. The more freedom of movement he had, the better.

 

* * *

 

On Saturday, he was reading the newspaper in the kitchen when the front door opened. He frowned. Elizabeth had already left for the gallery opening, and wouldn't be back until late. Peter wasn't due home for another couple hours. Neal savored times like these when he had the house to himself, so the unexpected intrusion was unwelcome.

He went out into the living room and saw it was Peter who had come home. Peter looked exhausted as he took off his coat.

"You're home early," Neal said, barely containing his disappointment.

Peter gave him a tired smile. "We just closed that counterfeiting case. I've been up since five AM, but the sting worked."

"I guess giving up your Saturday was worth it, then."

Peter looked at his watch. "Could be worse—it's only three o'clock. Not even dinner time yet."

"I would've thought they'd need you to stick around. Tie up loose ends, type reports...."

"I've already done everything I can until Monday. They can do without me for a bit. Hey, I think I'm going to get in the shower."

"Towels are in the dryer," Neal said. "Should be done in a minute, though."

"That's fine. Just bring one up to me."

"No problem."

Neal went into the laundry room to get the towels. He set most of them aside to be put away later, and took one upstairs.

The bathroom door was closed, and the shower was already running. He knocked, and Peter said, "Come on in."

Neal cracked open the door and peeked inside. Peter was already in the shower, with the curtain closed. Neal stepped in and laid the towel on the counter by the sink.

"Anything else?" he asked.

The curtain opened and Peter looked out. Neal carefully avoided looking any lower than his chest.

"No, that's great. I'll see you downstairs in a few minutes."

Neal turned and left.

Peter came downstairs fifteen minutes later, dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. He asked for a beer and settled down in front of the TV.

When Neal brought him the beer, Peter said, "Stick around. Sit down. I've been so busy on this case I feel like we haven't seen each other much." He opened the beer and held it out to Neal. "Here, would you like a sip?"

"No, thanks," he said, making a face.

He'd never cared for beer. It figured that was the only alcohol Peter offered him.

Peter shrugged and took a drink. He picked up the remote and started flipping through the channels. Neal sat on the floor.

"Man, I'm beat," Peter said.

"I guess that's the glamorous life of an FBI agent."

"No, but see, this is what it feels like to do good, rewarding work."

"I know what hard work feels like."

"No, your idea of hard work is not getting caught. I don't think you have any idea what truly rewarding work is like."

"I'm sure putting criminals into lives of slavery is very rewarding."

Peter narrowed his eyes at him. "It's good to see you in a collar, yeah." He took a drink of beer but kept his eye on Neal. "You're in a bit of a mood today. What is it? Are you upset Elizabeth didn't take you to the opening with her?"

"I'm not in a mood," Neal said. If anyone was in a mood, it was Peter.

But Peter was right: Neal _had_ been hoping he'd get to go to the opening.

He may have liked Elizabeth's attention, but he had no delusions about it. They had fun, but when it came down to it, Elizabeth was one of his owners. They both wanted something from the other; she wanted his service, and he wanted her to make his life bearable. Though he enjoyed the sex, it was hardly fair for it to be its own reward. He deserved _something_ for his efforts.

Peter directed his attention back to the TV. Finally, he settled on a dull documentary about Vikings. He sat back and put his stocking feet up on the coffee table.

During a commercial, he said, "A foot rub would feel good right now."

Neal raised his eyebrows. "I bet it would."

Peter frowned. "Let me rephrase that: a foot rub from my _personal slave_ would feel good."

Neal got up with a huff. He knelt by Peter's legs and started to rub his left foot.

Peter sighed contentedly. "That's great, Neal. You have nice hands, you know that?"

Neal knew it. He'd honed his hands through sketching, painting, and forging. Not doing dishes and giving foot rubs.

"By the way," Peter said, hesitantly. "I thought I'd give you a heads up. In a couple weeks, we're going to have a man over to appraise you."

Neal raised an eyebrow. "I thought you weren't interested in selling me."

"We're not. It's for insurance purposes."

"Sounds like fun," Neal muttered.

"It'll just take an hour, tops. But listen, I'm telling you so you can be prepared. The appraiser will assess your behavior, not just your body. So you'll need to be very good."

Neal couldn't suppress a small smile. "You want me to con him."

"No, I didn't say anything about conning anyone. I said to be on your best behavior."

"So, basically, you want me to con him."

"Neal!"

"It's okay. You can ask me to. I don't mind, really."

Peter sighed. "Yeah, I bet you don't."

What did Peter expect? Neal managed to get away with his "best behavior," but he knew it wouldn't pass muster in any official inspection. If Peter wanted a textbook slave, he should have bought someone else.

Peter was only half paying attention to the TV, so Neal said, "So, this case you closed today. Counterfeit currency, right?"

Peter perked up. "That’s right. We've been chasing these guys for a couple months. We finally got a lead on the paper last week."

Neal relaxed slightly as Peter told him about the case. He listened intently to how the FBI figured out the identities of the counterfeiters and set up a sting. This, Neal could relate to, even if he'd only experienced investigations from the opposite side. It was actually interesting to hear a different perspective on it.

He massaged Peter's feet until Peter finished telling the story. Then, Peter set his beer bottle on the coffee table and pulled his legs back, putting his feet on the floor.

"That was good," he said. "Thank you, Neal. It's good to have some one-on-one time like this."

He reached down and touched Neal's cheek. Neal blinked, startled, but didn't react right away. Peter brushed his thumb against Neal's lips and Neal jerked back, sitting on his heels just out of Peter's reach.

He expected Peter to admonish him, and didn't care. But Peter didn't say anything. He simply sat back and unzipped his pants.

Neal's eyes widened when he realized what was happening. He immediately started thinking of ways he could talk himself out of this.

Noticing Neal's expression, Peter said, "Don't look so surprised. I've told you what to expect from day one."

Neal couldn't dispute that. But could anyone blame him for hoping Peter had changed his mind? Or thinking that there'd be a little more warning, more build-up?

Peter lifted his hips and pulled his pants and underwear down a few inches. He pulled out his cock and balls and motioned for Neal to come closer.

"Move the coffee table back so you can kneel between my legs."

As Neal obeyed, he said, "I thought you were tired."

"Not too tired to enjoy a nice blowjob."

Neal could feel the heat in his face. He wasn't one to blush visibly, and he hoped that was true now.

"I'm supposed to be doing laundry," Neal said. "There are more loads to do."

"There's plenty of time. Stop stalling."

Reluctantly, Neal sank to his knees between Peter's spread thighs. He looked at the cock in front of his face with repulsed fascination.

"Is this supposed to be payback?" Neal asked. "'Cause if it is, I'm surprised at your notion of justice."

Peter's brow furrowed. "No. No, this has never been about revenge. You know that."

"Do I? 'Cause I could see you getting off to the thought of putting me in this position. Bet you thought about it the whole time you were chasing me."

That got a reaction from Peter. His breath hitched and he inched his legs further apart.

"Not the _whole_ time. But—" he brushed Neal's hair out of his face "—this isn't _revenge_ , Neal. I don't want to punish you—being enslaved is your punishment, and you'd be a slave whether I bought you or not." He lowered his hand and started playing with the collar around Neal's neck. "But yeah, I've thought about having you like this. Using that pretty mouth of yours."

Neal frowned. He'd suspected that this _was_ about revenge, deep down. But he didn't think Peter was twisted enough to pull off this brand of retribution. His touch as he fingered Neal's collar was too tender and intimate. The lust in his eyes was too genuine. There was no indication that he thought he was making Neal do anything horrible.

Instead, maybe it was about dominance. Catch an infamous criminal and then own him, completely. They'd spent three years playing cat and mouse, and now Peter was set to enjoy his prey.

In a way, it made it easier to think of it like that. If this was supposed to be Peter's idea of a punishment, that implied Neal had _lost_. But he was used to being in a power struggle with Peter Burke, and Neal knew all too well that sometimes things could take a turn for the worse. He'd left the luxury of the Palazzo Sasso when he heard the feds were onto him. He lost out on who knows how much money when the FBI learned how to identify his forged bonds.

He'd managed then, and he could claw his way out of this ordeal and regain what he'd lost. Rationally, he knew this was true even if he had to suck Peter's dick and tolerate his display of dominance.

In reality, it wasn't that simple. He went back to looking at Peter's groin with trepidation.

Perhaps noticing Neal's anxiety, Peter said, "Would it be easier if we treated this impersonally? Because as long as you're a slave, we're going to treat you like one. And this is the bare minimum a slave needs to be willing to do for his master."

Peter's voice had lost the hint of lust and was all business. Hooking a finger under Neal's collar, he pulled Neal's head down before releasing him. Neal didn't dare move back.

"I'm sorry if you don't like this as well as being with El," Peter said. "But it's just one of those things you have to get used to. This is your first time?"

Neal nodded.

"I don't expect you to be an expert at it. I'm sure you've gotten a few blowjobs in your time. Just do what _you_ like. And no teeth, or we'll have a problem. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," Neal said, but he didn't move.

"You can use your hands if you want."

Neal swallowed. "Yeah." He still didn't move.

Peter started to grow impatient. With an annoyed sigh, he said, "If I don't get to use your mouth, maybe I can find another hole that'll work...."

That was enough to spur Neal into action. Resting his left hand on Peter's thigh, he gently picked up Peter's cock with his right. It was strange, holding another man's penis, but not overly unpleasant. He briefly hoped that Peter might be satisfied with a hand job. Maybe Neal could get him to come like this.

But after a couple minutes of gentle stroking, Peter began to get impatient again.

"Enough of that. It's time you started using your mouth," he said.

Neal looked up and glared at him. "I'm trying, okay?"

"Trying what, exactly? I don't see you trying to give a blowjob."

"The TV's distracting me. Couldn't we go upstairs?"

At least Elizabeth had the poise to take him to bed with her. She made some effort to make their time together sexy. Even if Neal were attracted to Peter, he didn't think there'd be anything sexy about blowing him while a narrator droned on about Vikings in the background.

With a sigh, Peter lifted the remote and lowered the volume on the TV. "Is that better?"

"Much," Neal said, dryly.

There was no avoiding it. Neal held Peter's cock to his lips and tentatively touched the head with his tongue. Then, deciding it was best not to put off the inevitable, he took the cock into his mouth.

He must have done it too fast, or too deep, because he immediately pulled back and started coughing. Peter leaned forward and patted his back.

"Careful. Take it slow. Don't choke yourself."

When Neal was ready, he tried again. This time, he ran his tongue up and down Peter's shaft before he covered his teeth with his lips and tried a few shallow thrusts.

Peter ran his fingers through Neal's hair. "That's good. See? You made such a fuss about this, but it's no big deal. Lick my balls, too. I like that."

Neal did. It could have been worse, he supposed. Peter was fresh from the shower, and while he kept his hand on Neal's head, he didn't hold him down or control his movements.

Neal considered doing a purposely bad job. But he wanted to be done more than he wanted to spite Peter, and he had no idea how long Peter would draw this out.

It was a strange feeling to have Peter's cock and balls against his tongue. To distract himself, he thought about the Chagall forgery he did a couple years back, which was still hanging in a museum somewhere, undiscovered. He thought about the original painting, which was safely tucked away in one of his hiding places.

As it turned out, Neal might not have been able to drag out the blowjob if he'd wanted to. Peter came a couple minutes later when Neal had his cock between his lips. Neal felt Peter's fingers tighten in his hair, and then a few spurts of warm come filled his mouth.

He grimaced at the salty taste, and his first instinct was to try to spit it out. But Peter looked down at him and said, "Make sure you swallow. You're gonna need to get used to it."

After Neal swallowed, Peter made him lick the head of his cock clean before he stuffed it back in his underwear.

As he zipped up his pants, he said, "That was...acceptable."

"Wow, I'm flattered," Neal said. His voice cracked. His throat was still raw from coughing, and from the invasion of Peter's cock.

"Well, I'm not going to sugarcoat it. You did all right, but not great. You need a lot of practice. Frankly, I expected a little better from the great Neal Caffrey, even if it was your first time."

Neal's face fell at the words "a lot of practice."

Peter gave his shoulder a squeeze. "Hey, cowboy up. There's nothing to sulk about. Maybe I should have let you take some of your Valium first. I think there are a couple doses left."

Neal glared at him. "I'm not taking drugs to make things easier on you."

"Fine, then forget that. Tell you what: I was thinking we could order a pizza tonight, since El won't be back until late. That sound good to you?"

"Do whatever you want."

If Peter was trying to give him a treat with the pizza, it didn't work. Though, Neal was secretly pleased not to have to do as many dishes that evening. Peter invited him to watch TV with him some more, but Neal said he was tired. After he was done doing laundry, he went upstairs and closed himself in his room for the night.

Later, after midnight, he heard footsteps outside his door. Recognizing the sound of high heels, he knew it was Elizabeth. He was sitting cross-legged on the bed, sketching. He'd been working on a crude portrait of Kate, the best he could do with the dull pencil he had. When he heard Elizabeth, he covered the portrait with another sheet of paper, which contained only a study of his left hand.

Elizabeth cracked open the door.

"Mind if I come in?"

"No, come on in."

She stepped inside. She was still wearing the black cocktail dress she'd left in, and she was carrying a small paper bag.

"How was the opening?" he asked.

"It was good. Maybe next time, I can bring you with me. I brought you home a couple appetizers, if you're interested."

She set the bag on the nightstand. Neal peeked inside and saw some small packets of aluminum foil.

"Thanks."

She sat down on the edge of the bed. "Peter said you've been holed up in here all night. He doesn't think you're too happy right now."

"Did he tell you why?"

Elizabeth nodded.

"So, he sent you up here to check on me?"

"Would you believe me if I said he's a little concerned?"

Concerned. That was rich. Neal scoffed.

"Sometimes it's hard for us to understand what a big adjustment this is for you. But we do want the best for you." Seeing his skeptical look she added, "The best you can have, under the circumstances."

She kissed his forehead. "You'll see: it's not going to be that bad. I told Peter to be patient with you."

When she left, he ate the still-warm appetizers.

Though Peter's earlier comments about his skill had annoyed him, he thought about purposely underachieving. If he gave bad blowjobs, Peter was bound to give up on him eventually.

 

* * *

 

As it turned out, Peter had little trouble finding time in his schedule to "practice" with Neal. He liked a blowjob now and then when he came home from work.

At first, it was uncomfortable. It made Neal's jaw sore, and it was hard not to gag. But Peter was infuriatingly patient.

Neal focused on giving the most tedious, least-inspired blowjobs he could manage. In a way, it would have been simpler to give in. When Neal found himself on his knees two or three times a week, it was tempting to get it over with quickly.

But his pride wouldn't let him. He tried to tell himself that a little extra discomfort was worth it in the long run, if it made a point.

Peter showed no sign of giving up, however. He merely seemed unsure about how to handle Neal's resistance to training.

He quickly figured out that appealing to Neal's non-existent sense of duty wasn't working. Neal didn't care if having sex with Peter was something he was _supposed_ to do. He didn't care if it was something Peter was legally entitled to. When had Neal cared about following the rules for their own sake?

Then Peter tried coaxing and manipulation.

"I know you can do better," Peter said one evening, clicking his tongue as he zipped up his pants. "I would've thought Neal Caffrey would take more pride in his work than this."

"I guess you've found something I'm not good at," Neal said. He shifted on the carpeted floor of the master bedroom. He could hear Elizabeth downstairs, preparing dinner.

Peter murmured and petted Neal's hair. "It's a shame you have to be so stubborn. I think you and I could have fun together if you cooperated."

But after a couple weeks of no improvement, Peter's patience started to wane.

Once, to Neal's surprise, his efforts (or lack thereof) earned him a sharp tug on his hair.

"Focus," Peter said.

Neal's scalp stung and he fought the urge to rub it. With a stunt like this, Peter was lucky Neal hadn't bitten down in surprise. Actually, he wished he'd thought to do that. It was too late to pass it off as a reflex now.

Instead, he let Peter's cock slip out of his mouth and, even though it hadn't hurt _that_ much, said, " _Ow_."

Peter's frown wavered. "Your mind was wandering," he said defensively. "You weren't even trying." He sighed. "Neal, I've tried to be patient with you. I knew this was going to take work, but I thought you'd be past the mechanics by now."

Neal, of course, was having little trouble focusing. He simply wasn't focused on what Peter wanted.

He knew that displeasing Peter was a risk, and that it would make his life harder before there was any hope of making it better. Neal had never been that good at cons that forced him to make sacrifices. He liked his comfort and happiness too much.

But he didn't see much chance of "comfort" in being Peter's sex slave.

He'd take his chances.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neal endures an appraisal, and is introduced to Peter's idea of a reward.

On the day the appraiser was scheduled to come over, Peter took the morning off.

Neal got dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, but stayed barefoot and didn't commit himself to any time-consuming tasks. He knew his presence would be required, and that'd he'd almost certainly have to strip at some point.

While Neal made a show of straightening up the bookcase, Peter sat on the sofa. Elizabeth was in the kitchen, making coffee. Neither of them had said much to Neal this morning. Peter seemed calm enough, but Elizabeth had looked almost guilty when she'd encouraged Neal to take a second helping of scrambled eggs at breakfast.

"Remember what I said about being good?" Peter said.

"Hard to forget."

"Well, if you behave, there might a reward for you."

Before Neal could respond, there was a knock at the door. Peter got up to let the appraiser in.

The appraiser introduced himself as Carl. He was a stocky man with a well-groomed, graying beard. He worked for the Burkes' insurance company, and showed Peter the card that qualified him to perform state-licensed slave appraisals. He carried a soft, worn leather briefcase from which he immediately pulled a stack of papers.

He accepted a cup of coffee from Elizabeth and sat down to talk to her and Peter. Neal stood and listened, unsure of what to do with himself. He’d started to forget what it was like to have people discuss him in his presence.

"I've already reviewed the medical and dental records you forwarded to me," Carl said. "It was a good idea to take him in for exams early."

Neal had gotten checkups at the doctor and dentist during his first week with the Burkes. It felt like a long ago now, even though it’d only been a few weeks.

"He seems to be in very good health," Carl continued, looking at some paperwork he had in his lap. "It certainly helps his market value, and of course, good health reflects well on the owners. Now, on the phone, you said he performs domestic duties?"

"Yes," Elizabeth said. "He helps with the cooking and cleaning." She thought for a second and added, "He’s a very good cook. We haven’t had to give him any instruction."

Carl nodded and made some notes. "That’s good. Now, you’ll have to forgive me for being frank. We need to speak openly about the slave’s assets. The state assumed he would be used for companionship and sexual use as well as domestic duties. Is that the case?"

Peter and Elizabeth glanced at each other, and Peter started to play with his watchband.

"Well, yes," Peter said.

"We don’t need to discuss the details of that, of course. Just a couple questions. Are you sharing him with others? Friends?"

"No," Elizabeth said. "No, of course not. He’s just...ours."

Carl nodded and made another note. "Out of curiosity, is Neal bisexual, by any chance?"

"Well," Peter said, keeping his gaze away from Neal. "I'm not sure _Neal_ sees himself that way...."

Carl held up a hand. "Oh, it’s no problem. Not many slaves are bisexual, and it doesn’t affect market value much. It just makes things simpler, and it can be a selling point. Not all owners realize that, so I like to bring it up."

"Oh," Elizabeth said, "well, we’re not interested in selling him."

"I understand. Now, according to the slave’s official record, he’s considered an escape risk."

"Yes," Peter explained, "they had to classify him that way because he has a history of eluding the authorities. But we keep a close eye on him. I don’t anticipate any problems that would require the insurance company to get involved. I already know there'll be a higher deductible, though."

"Maybe at first. According to my information, this isn't considered a high-risk placement. We assume you're used to handling felons. So I wouldn't expect insurance to be too prohibitive. Honestly, I'm not the one to talk to about that. The problem is that being classed as an escape risk does lower his value somewhat."

Peter nodded solemnly.

Neal's ears grew hot at hearing himself discussed this way. Like he was an object. He bit his tongue, wanting desperately to make a smart remark. But he remembered he was supposed to be conning the appraiser. He knew it was in his best interests to be appraised highly.

Setting his coffee mug and paperwork down on the coffee table, Carl said, "Would it be all right if I got a closer look at the slave, now?"

"Of course," Peter said. He looked at Neal for the first time during the proceedings. "Go on and get undressed, Neal."

Just like that, it got even worse. How long was this appraisal going to take, anyway?

As he slowly stripped off his clothes, Neal reflected on how quickly things changed. A couple months ago, this sort of humiliation was foreign to him. He'd adjusted quickly enough during processing, but now, a few weeks later, the shame was almost fresh. Maybe he'd gotten used to the comparatively better treatment at the Burkes'; maybe it was simply different having to do this in front of people he knew.

Carl stood and walked closer to Neal. He looked him up and down and covered every inch of exposed flesh with his gaze.

First, Neal had to stand up straight with his feet shoulder-width apart and his hands behind his head. Carl snapped on some latex gloves and squeezed Neal's biceps. He looked into Neal's eyes and had him open his mouth.

Carl crouched down. Neal steeled himself for what he knew was coming. Carl lifted Neal's dick and gently manipulated it. Next, he pressed his fingers into Neal's balls, searching for lumps or other anomalies.

Looking over his shoulder, Carl said, "I'll measure him now, if you don't mind."

"Go ahead," Peter murmured.

Carl pulled a disposable paper measuring tape out of his pocket. He held one end at the base of Neal's cock, and the other at the head. Neal clenched his jaw. He couldn't bring himself to look down, or at Peter and Elizabeth.

He'd suffered this indignity before, at the processing center. But apparently that record wasn't enough for the appraiser's satisfaction.

Carl started to stroke Neal's cock, trying to coax it into hardness. But Neal's cock resisted this assault from a stranger.

With small huff of dissatisfaction, Carl said, "Is he more responsive with you guys?"

"Oh, yes," Elizabeth said quickly. "I think he's just nervous about the appraisal."

"Yeah, that happens. I can try to measure him again at the end." He let go of Neal's cock and stood up. To Neal, he said, "Okay, I need you to turn around and bend over."

Neal didn't see how any of this related to his value. Peter and Elizabeth didn't even show much interest in his cock, so why did it matter how long it was? And what did his ass add to his value?

But he knew he would be in trouble if he didn't obey. Slowly, he turned around and bent over, touching his toes.

"Spread your legs more," Carl said.

Neal cringed and inched his legs apart. He swore he could feel the eyes on him. He knew everyone was staring at his asshole right now.

He heard a packet of lube being torn open, and the next thing he knew, a cold, slick finger was being pushed inside him. He squirmed.

"Mm, very tight," Carl said. "Great muscle tone. I'll just manipulate his prostate a bit."

Neal's face was burning. Whether it was more from embarrassment or being upside down, he didn't know.

Carl was dispassionate as he started to stroke Neal's prostate. "You might want to think about giving him prostate massages," he said. "It's good for slaves."

Neal knew what the appraiser was trying to accomplish, and he willed his cock to get hard just to bring an end to it.

Finally, after a couple minutes, Neal's erection met Carl's satisfaction, and he removed his finger and allowed Neal to stand up again. He picked up the tape measure and took a second measurement of Neal's now-erect dick.

"Great," Carl said, finally. "I think I'm done with him. He has a wonderful body."

"You can go ahead and get dressed again," Peter said.

As he reached for his clothes, Neal couldn't help but say, "Are you sure you've seen everything?"

Peter raised his eyebrows, but Carl ignored the outburst. As Neal got dressed, Elizabeth gave him a sympathetic look.

"I'll contact you with my estimate of his value within a day or two," Carl said. "I will say that you could probably make a few thousand more on him than what you paid. You got a very good deal. If you wanted to add to his value, you could consider getting him professional training. That can add on thousands more. But if you're not planning to sell, it may not be a good investment."

"No," Elizabeth said, "we're definitely not interested in selling. And Peter and I want to handle all the training ourselves."

Carl nodded. "That's very doable. Just don’t be alarmed if it's harder than you expect. Arrangements like this can have some challenges."

Peter narrowed his eyes. "Arrangements?"

"Some couples find that the slave prefers one owner over the other. This is normal, especially if the slave isn't bisexual. But it can cause conflict."

Elizabeth blushed slightly. Peter frowned and said, "I don't think we're going to have any trouble."

After Peter saw the appraiser out, Elizabeth said, "Thank goodness _that's_ over. It was kind of undignified, wasn't it?"

Peter winced. "I know, but at least now we should be all set with insurance. I think we could have done without some of the 'advice,' though."

Elizabeth motioned for Neal to sit beside her on the sofa. She rubbed his shoulders and he leaned against her, happy for the sympathy.

"You did really well." She murmured. Looking at Peter, she said, "Didn't he do well?"

"Yeah, you were a good sport." He looked at his watch. "Damn, I need to get to work. I'll tell you what, Neal: when I get home, I'll give you your reward. How about that?"

Neal nodded.

Elizabeth must have felt guilty about subjecting Neal to the appraisal, because after Peter left she let Neal put off his chores, have some coffee, and spend time watching TV with her. The appraisal hadn't been any worse than what Neal had experienced in processing, but he appreciated the opportunity to relax.

 

* * *

 

Neal was in his room when Peter came home. Out of habit, he stayed where he was. He figured if he didn't make himself easily accessible, he was less likely to find himself on his knees.

He heard Peter rifling around in the master bedroom for over a half hour. Then Peter came over to the foot of the stairs and yelled, "Neal, could you come down here?"

Neal sighed and cursed his luck, but then he recalled the promise of a reward. Hoping for the best, he went down to the master bedroom.

Peter had laid out some clothes on the bed. There were a couple worn out pairs of jeans, a pair of khaki slacks, and a handful of shirts.

"What's going on?" Neal asked.

Peter smiled. "El has wanted me to go through my old clothes for months now. Since you didn't act out too much today, I thought we could see if any of this stuff fits you. Your wardrobe is pretty sparse."

Neal looked at the clothes with raised eyebrows. "My reward is to help you clean out your closet?"

"Figured we could kill two birds with one stone. Go on—take a look."

Neal stepped over to the bed and shifted through the garments, pretending to seriously consider them. But he'd already made his judgment.

He'd been wishing for more clothes for weeks, but the thought of wearing clothes that _Peter Burke_ thought were too outdated and worn out made him very happy with what he already had.

Neal held a t-shirt up to his chest. "I'm pretty sure I didn't attend any law enforcement conventions in 2003. I'm not going to be accused of impersonating a federal agent if I wear this, will I?"

Peter narrowed his eyes. "Don't worry; I think you're safe."

Neal set the t-shirt aside and continued to shift through the items of clothing. His disdain must have been evident on his face.

"You know," Peter said, "it wouldn't kill you to pretend to be grateful. I'm trying to be nice, here. And legally, I don't even have to give you clothes except for when you go out in public. Maybe you should think about that."

Neal frowned. Peter was right, of course—Neal had heard of slaves being kept naked. He didn't believe for a second that Peter would actually do that to him. Peter was too fond of seeing himself as a kind master, and lording that over Neal. But he'd made his point, regardless.

"It's not that I don't appreciate all this," Neal said. "I do. But I'm not sure I see myself wearing some of these pieces."

"Well, if you don't like these, I guess you can get a cab and take yourself shopping for some things you like better."

"That'd be nice! If I had some money...."

"Too bad you don't."

Neal cocked his head. "Come on. Is there really no way I could...."

"I'm not spending my money so you can have fancy suits or whatever else you want. You don't need that sort of stuff right now, anyway."

"I had some really nice suits," Neal said wistfully. "Designer. Some of them were bespoke. I suppose they were sold. They told me any valuables I had were going to be auctioned off. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"No," Peter said with a touch of sympathy. "I have no idea what happened to your things."

Slaves' belongings provided a legal conundrum. Valuables were sold at auction, with the money either going to the state or to the felon's victims. The felon's family could usually get possession of any heirlooms, even valuable ones, if they could prove they had a legitimate claim to them. The state didn't care what happened to the rest of the stuff. If a felon made arrangements prior to being enslaved, they were honored. If there were no arrangements, a small amount of clothing and personal effects were stored for those who were serving brief sentences, but there were no guarantees about the fate of the rest of it.

Neal had taken his lawyer's advice and drawn up the papers bequeathing his belongings to Kate. She should have gotten whatever the state didn't auction off, but he had no way of knowing if she actually did, or where his things were now.

But he only cared about the suits, and those were gone.

"Those nice things you had—you didn’t earn them, you know. You can’t lose something you were never supposed to have in the first place."

"There’s nothing wrong with wanting to enjoy the finer things in life."

"There is when it leads you to break the law. That’s why you’re here."

Was wearing clothes he hated supposed to be his penance? It was evident that he had to try to adjust to a lower standard of living.

Peter’s clothes didn’t quite fit, but they ran large, not small, which by Peter’s judgment was good enough.

"You can roll up the cuffs," he said, indicating the too-long sleeves and pant legs.

Neal had to concede that a few of the items Peter gave him weren’t that bad. There was a button-down shirt that was almost new. He would save the stuff he didn't like for doing dirty chores.

Neal resolved that the next time Peter offered a reward for cooperation, he'd demand to know what it was first.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Elizabeth plot to make Neal more responsive to Peter's interests.

The following Saturday, Neal started to come downstairs in the morning only to freeze on the stairs when he heard strained voices coming from the kitchen.

"I'm not jealous," Peter was saying. "I mean it. I think it's great you've had such a good time with Neal."

"I know that. I never said you were," Elizabeth said.

"I'm just getting tired of Neal's enthusiasm being so selective, that's all."

"Well, honey, what are we supposed to do about it? We can't _make_ him want something."

"I don't know. Maybe you could back me up, here."

"Of course I will. But I don't want to make him feel threatened. When you're harsh with him, it just makes it harder."

"Then what do you suggest?"

There was a pause, and then Elizabeth said, "Well, for one thing, maybe you could try rewarding him more."

"I don't want him to think that sulking will get him what he wants. He needs to understand that it's not about what he wants."

"Honey, come on. Slave or not, you can't expect someone to give you something if they're not getting anything in return. And besides, effort deserves a reward. He _is_ trying."

"Maybe with you, he is," Peter said sourly. "Besides, I tried rewarding him with those clothes, and he acted like I insulted him."

"I don't know if I blame him. Some of those t-shirts should be thrown away. Maybe you could try giving him something he likes. Or you could reciprocate more when you're together. You know, so he doesn't just feel like he's doing a job."

"You mean, touch him?"

"Sure, or kiss him. See if he likes that."

Neal listened with rapt attention. Knowing what Peter was thinking, and what he planned to do, gave him a great advantage.

While Peter and Elizabeth continued to talk, Satchmo came over to the foot of the stairs and looked up at Neal, curious. Neal tried to silently shoo him away, but he didn't budge. Worried that the attention would give him away, Neal decided it was time to make his presence known. He walked the rest of the way down the stairs and said hello to Satchmo as he walked through the living room.

Peter and Elizabeth grew quiet immediately.

Elizabeth might have believed that intimacy would make Neal's time with Peter more enjoyable. But Neal wasn't prepared for that. Perhaps it was better if sex was no different than doing the dishes or scrubbing the floor.

Neal understood Elizabeth's mistake. With her, intimacy made things better. When she kissed and held him, it made him feel like he was her lover. But he couldn't imagine feeling like Peter's lover.

The next time Peter called him into the master bedroom, Neal started to sink to his knees automatically. But this time, Peter caught his elbow and hoisted him back up.

"What's the hurry?" Peter patted the bed. "C'mon. Sit with me."

Slowly, Neal sat on the bed next to Peter. He kept some space between their bodies, but Peter clapped a hand on his knee and gave it a squeeze.

"You know, I like unwinding with a blowjob when I get home."

"I've noticed," Neal said. 

"But sometimes it's nice to do a little more. I feel like I haven't gotten that acquainted with you yet."

Neal raised his eyebrows but didn't say anything. He knew exactly what Peter was trying to do, and he wasn't going to give him any help.

Peter's mouth twitched. He hesitated for a moment, and leaned over and kissed Neal.

The kiss was hard and dry. He tried to slip his tongue between Neal's lips. Neal refused to part them, and, after a moment's effort, Peter gave up and sat back.

"I heard back from the appraiser this morning," Peter said. "Turns out you're worth a good amount. He appraised you at eight thousand."

Actually, that didn't sound so great at all. Neal had heard of slaves selling for higher than that. He was sure that each of Vincent Adler's slaves had cost at least ten thousand. But Peter was smiling proudly.

"I guess I should be honored," Neal said, dryly.

"It's not bad for a slave with a four-year sentence. And I thought you being considered a flight risk would bring the value down more. El and I only paid five thousand for you." He sounded self-congratulatory, like he was proud of himself for getting a good deal.

"So, you could make a profit off of me if you wanted."

"I told you, Neal. We're not selling you."

Neal shrugged. "I'm just saying. It's gotta cost a lot of money, taking care of a slave. Even if you do make me wear your hand-me-downs."

"I'm not worried about that," Peter said, running his hand up and down Neal's thigh. "The only return I want for my investment is hard work and the pleasure of your company. Speaking of which, let's get you out of that shirt."

Neal peeled off his t-shirt and tossed it aside. It was chilly in the room, but he was used to going about in a t-shirt most days. His long-sleeved shirts were nicer and he preferred to save them for outings and other opportunities that didn't arise often.

Peter smiled and inched closer. "There, that's nice. Let's get you comfortable."

He pushed Neal back onto the bed. Neal lay down, the comforter cool under his back. 

"What are you doing?" Neal asked.

Peter ran a hand up Neal's stomach. "What does it feel like I'm doing?"

Neal squirmed. "Your hands are cold."

Peter ignored him and unbuttoned Neal's jeans. He tugged them, along with his underwear, down to his thighs.

Neal hadn't expected Peter to be bold enough to actually touch his dick. Clearly, he'd underestimated him.

When Peter started to stroke him, Neal said, "I thought you wanted a blowjob."

"I told you—there's no rush."

"But I have other things to do." Technically, it was true. But Elizabeth wouldn't want his help with dinner for at least another hour yet. "You don't need to do this."

"I _want_ to do it. Relax—I thought we could have a fun time."

Neal twisted his hips and pulled away from Peter's hand. "Not sure I share your idea of 'fun.'"

Peter frowned and nudged Neal back into position. "According to El, you like getting handjobs."

Neal had known Elizabeth probably told Peter about what they did together, but the confirmation stung. He tried to hide his annoyance at the fact that she was sharing his likes and dislikes.

"She has softer hands." For good measure, he jerked and said, "Ouch...."

Peter's hands weren't _that_ rough, and Peter looked suspicious as he let go of Neal's cock.

Peter leaned over and opened the nightstand drawer. He pulled out a bottle of lube and held it up for Neal to see. "Would this make it feel better?"

Before Neal could figure out a way to convince Peter that it _wouldn't_ be better, Peter's cell phone vibrated on the nightstand. Cursing under his breath, Peter set down the lube and picked up the phone.

"What's going on, Jones?" he said, answering the call. "No, you definitely need form 80-B. There should be some on my desk." He glanced at Neal. "No, don't worry about it. You're not interrupting anything. But listen, it's already after five. If you need to worry about the form in the morning, that's fine. What? No. Who told you need 80-C?"

Seeing an opportunity, Neal slowly pulled his pants up and got off the bed. As he inched toward the door, he met Peter's eyes and whispered, "I'll just give you a minute...."

Peter rolled his eyes and waved Neal off. Covering the phone, he said, "Fine, just go."

Neal made his retreat. Elizabeth had wanted him to clean out the refrigerator, and now seemed like the perfect time to do it.

 

* * *

 

"What do you have to say about _this_?"

Neal looked at the shirt Peter had just thrown on the dining room table.

"It appears to be one of your shirts."

Peter pursed his lips and straightened out the shirt. He pointed at a burn mark on the back.

"And that would appear to be a burn," Neal said.

"Yes, it would seem a slave was careless with the iron yesterday."

Neal shrugged. "I guess I got distracted."

Peter put his hands on his hips. "Sure. Distracted."

"Well, I'm not sure what more you can expect from an eight thousand dollar slave. Or was it five thousand?"

"Seriously? That's what this is about? You're pissed off because of how much money you're worth?"

"Who said I'm pissed off? Did it occur to you that I might have made a mistake, or did you just jump to the worst conclusion?"

But of _course_ he was pissed off. Part of it was the appraisal. He'd imagined he'd be more valuable, but eight thousand was just a little above average. If he had to be a slave, he could at least be a high-value one.

But he was also getting tired of this ordeal. Now that he was used to the Burkes' home and had settled into a routine, he had less tolerance for the reality of being a slave. He couldn't accept that this was going to be his fate for the next few years.

And it was clear that his plan to discourage Peter from having sex with him wasn't working. The only thing Neal had managed was to keep a tiny scrap of his pride.

If burning Peter's shirts could give him some satisfaction, he'd happily burn them all.

"This was no accident," Peter said. "Just like it wasn't an accident when you put too much salt in the mashed potatoes the other night. Or when you 'forgot' to tell me the insurance company called when I was in the shower. Or when you let Satchmo eat my sandwich. If it were just one or two things like this, I'd give you the benefit of the doubt. But your behavior has taken a turn for the worse all week. And now—" he pointed at the shirt "—you've ruined a perfectly good shirt!"

"So, does that mean you'll be giving it to me now?"

He knew from the look on Peter's face that he'd gone too far. He shouldn't have pushed it. He should have put on the obedient slave act, should have tried to make Peter doubt his own judgment. 

Before he could do damage control, Peter dropped the shirt and walked over to him. Without hesitating, he gave Neal's ass two hard slaps.

Neal jumped and stepped away. He turned so that his ass was out of Peter's reach. He started to reach back to rub where Peter had hit him, but he resisted the urge, instead letting the sting slowly burn off on its own.

"Whoa, what are you doing? You can get in trouble for hitting me!"

"No. I'm not allowed to injure you. If I want to spank you for giving me an attitude, I'm within my rights. So if you don't want more of that, I suggest you change your tone."

Neal realized he was right. In any case, this wasn't a battle he wanted to fight right now. Sobering, he forced an innocent smile and said, "I'm sorry for damaging your shirt. Won't happen again."

Peter nodded. "That's what I like to hear."

It wasn't the last of it, though. That evening, Peter took away _two_ of Neal's shirts, the nice ones that Neal liked.

Neal tried not to show his disappointment. He could handle being spanked better than losing his things.

But after dinner that night, as Neal sulked on the living room floor, Peter reached down from the sofa and rubbed his shoulder, saying, "Tell you what—if you behave over the weekend, you can get your shirts back on Monday."

At least that was something.

He wasn't sure what he'd intended to accomplish by making Peter displeased with him. But it was clear now that there would be consequences.

 

* * *

 

Neal had been with the Burkes for over a month, and they'd grown more accustomed to allowing him out of the house.

Neal wasn't simply allowed to go out when he wished, of course. Even if the Burkes had trusted him more, slaves weren't supposed to go far from home unless they were accompanied or had a license permitting them to be out.

But walking Satchmo became a regular part of his routine. He took whatever chance he had to get out of the house, whether it was walking Satchmo through the neighborhood or accompanying Elizabeth to the grocery store.

When he could, he liked to take Satchmo to a park a few blocks away. Peter would let him go by himself with a warning to be back within an hour.

When Neal pointed out he had no way of keeping track of time, Peter gave him an old watch with a cracked leather band and scratched face.

Neal thought it was silly to have to watch the time when he went out. It wasn't like Peter didn't know where he was.

Last year, the state introduced applications that allowed owners to track their slaves' GPS signals. Peter had made it clear that he kept that data in front of him whenever Neal went out. He'd even warned Neal that he checked it periodically when he was at work, just to make sure Neal was still at home.

But even if he was being tracked, getting out to the park was a cherished opportunity to get away for a while.

One breezy, early-autumn afternoon, he was sitting on a bench. He’d let Satchmo off the leash and was throwing a frisbee for him when he saw someone approach out of the corner of his eye and sit on the bench beside his.

"I saw two birds by the fountain."

His heart jolted at the sound of Mozzie's voice. He couldn't suppress a smile as he turned to look at his friend.

"Moz! How’d you find me here?"

Neal couldn’t believe it. He’d given up hope of seeing Moz weeks ago.

"Neal! I was trying to be discreet." Mozzie sighed. "I’ve been doing reconnaissance for a couple weeks. Now, is it safe?"

"Yeah, it’s safe. I’m by myself."

Neal tried to process the fact that Mozzie had been watching him. Peter accompanied Neal on walks occasionally, and Neal wasn’t sure he liked the thought of Mozzie seeing him with Peter. Especially if Peter was using the leash.

But he pushed the discomfort aside. Finally, he had a chance to talk to someone.

He tried not to face Mozzie directly. Most people around the park didn’t know Neal well enough to report anything back to the Burkes, but a slave speaking to a free person could be seen as inappropriate or suspicious.

"I can't believe you were bought by a fed," Mozzie said. "It's cruel and unusual punishment."

"Tell me about it."

"Are you all right?"

"Hanging in there."

Mozzie unzipped a small cooler bag by his side and pulled out a Tupperware container and a plastic fork. He handed it to Neal.

"Here—thought you might be able to use some decent food."

Neal smiled when he opened the container.

"You brought me coq au vin?"

"The best in the city."

Satchmo whined at Neal's feet, unhappy at being ignored. Neal tossed the frisbee one last time and then devoted his attention wholly to the heavenly food in his lap. Good food was meant to be savored, but there was no time for that. He picked up the fork and dug in. 

"My God," Mozzie said, "are they _starving_ you?"

"No," Neal said, swallowing down a bite. Mozzie handed him a bottle of mineral water and he took a gulp. "I just don’t have a lot of time. I’m supposed to be back at the house in a half hour. This food though—It’s great, Moz, really. Elizabeth—that’s Peter’s wife—"

"Yes, I’m familiar with your overlords."

"She has good taste, so most of the food isn’t bad. But Peter doesn't like any food that he can't pronounce."

Mozzie scoffed. "And I take it his culinary vocabulary is narrower than yours."

Neal murmured in assent.

While Neal ate, he asked, "Have you talked to Kate? How is she?"

Mozzie hesitated.

Neal set down his fork. "Moz, what is it? I’m not liking the silence."

"Well, let’s just say that your situation has been a cautionary tale. People are lying low."

"Meaning?"

"For example, Alex has decided to limit her activities to countries that don't have slavery. I hear she purchased a house in Sweden."

"I asked about Kate. Are you going to tell me she's living in Sweden, too?"

"Not that I’m aware of. But she’s making herself scarce. I've only talked to her a couple times since you were sentenced. I'm just saying you shouldn't be too surprised that she hasn't tracked you down. You couldn't know how she'd react to this happening."

"I don't want her to stick her neck out for me. She knows that. It doesn't mean she doesn't care."

"I never said she didn't."

Neal knew what Mozzie was implying, though. He thought he'd proven he was more loyal than Kate by coming here. Or maybe he believed Kate was truly gone, and wanted to break it to Neal gently. Neal didn't buy that for a second, but his watch was ticking and he didn't have time to defend Kate. 

"Does she know where I am? Who bought me?"

"It's public record, Neal. Yeah, of course she knows."

Neal sat back. As glad as he was that Mozzie found him, he'd half-hoped he was untraceable. Slavery was a reality. Every conman and criminal knew it could happen to them. But being a con owned by a fed was a special form of shame.

"Oh," Mozzie said with a smile, "I do have some good news. I went to a seized property auction a couple weeks ago and was able to buy back three of your suits."

"Really? That's great. Thanks, Moz."

"Don't mention it."

Finished with his food, Neal put the fork inside the container and handed it to Mozzie. Satchmo was back at Neal's side, but had lain down at his feet.

"Listen," Mozzie said, "I don't want to pry, but are you okay? These owners of yours, they don't...hurt you, do they?"

"No," Neal said slowly. "No, nothing like that. I guess they've been as good to me as I can expect."

Mozzie shifted on his bench. "Right. Look, I hate to be blunt, but I do know the sort of duties personal slaves are expected to perform. You don’t have to pretend it’s not horrible."

Neal’s face grew hot. Gathering his wits, he said, "Wait, you think I sleep with them? No, Moz, it’s nothing like that. I just do the dishes, vacuum, walk the dog. Purely domestic stuff. To be honest, it's boring. I feel like I'm losing brain cells. I cook, but like I said, Peter’s not exactly a gourmet."

Mozzie looked surprised, and maybe skeptical. "Oh. Well that's...that’s good to hear. I mean, boring is tolerable, right? You can handle that for four years."

Neal forced a small smile. "That's assuming I’m going to stick around for four years."

"You have another plan?"

"Do you really think they can keep me here?"

Mozzie squirmed. "It's not a question of whether or not they can keep you. It's a question of whether it's worth the risk of being caught."

"Are you seriously saying I shouldn't run? Didn't think you'd be the type to bow to the establishment, Moz."

"Bite your tongue. Far be it from me to encourage any bowing. But I do believe in self-preservation, and you know some very bad things could happen to you if you're not careful. I'm just saying...if all the Suit is doing is keeping you bored, maybe four years is doable."

Mozzie was right—escape was risky. But he couldn't let his friend believe he'd acquiesced to his fate.

"I can't believe you. I thought you'd be supportive."

"I am! But what are you going to do? Do you even have a plan?"

"All I need is a passport and some money. If you can get those for me, I can handle everything else."

"Yeah? And what about that jewelry around your neck? Slave collars are almost impossible to get off without a real key. I'm not even sure if _I_ could crack one."

"Luckily for me, I belong to an FBI agent. I can get a key."

Mozzie was silent, and Neal took it as a sign of agreement. Pushing further, he said, "I'll need money and ID in order to get out of here. Getting my collar off won't help if I'm stuck in Brooklyn."

"All right, fine. Give me a few days."

Neal wasn't as confident as he made himself sound. The truth was, while he'd daydreamed about escaping, he had no concrete plan. He wasn't actually sure how he would get a key to his collar.

He just couldn't bear to let Mozzie think he wasn't willing to try. Mozzie could talk all he wanted about being careful, but the Neal Caffrey he'd known wouldn't be made into a slave. Neal had to keep his old image alive.

Neal didn't think Mozzie really understood how things were now. And he couldn't let Mozzie know that sex was involved. He knew he'd never be able to explain how things were with Elizabeth, and he couldn't bear to admit he had sex with Peter. 

Neal might not have had a lot of control over his situation, but at least he could control how his friends saw it.

He didn't see Mozzie again that week. But a few days after their meeting, he found a crumpled paper bag half-concealed in the park, sitting under the bench Mozzie had sat on.

On a hunch that it wasn't just garbage, Neal investigated and found his Nick Halden passport and a couple thousand in cash inside. 

It couldn’t have been there long. He wondered if Mozzie was watching from a distance, but he didn't see him.

He snuck the bag back home with him. It was small enough that he managed to hold it under his jacket without any detection.

He stashed it in his bedroom closet, but he knew he’d need a better hiding place. His entire room was too risky--sometimes Peter came in and took a look around, and there was no guarantee he wouldn’t conduct a full search someday.

No, he would need to find some place that Peter wouldn't think to look. The next afternoon, Elizabeth was away at meetings for most of the day, so Neal took advantage of the time to look for a suitable place.

It couldn’t be somewhere where the Burkes were too likely to stumble upon it. Finally, opening the hall closet on the third floor, he noticed a large plastic tub marked "Christmas."

It was perfect. Christmas was months away yet. When it got closer to December, he could find another hiding place. He stashed the paper bag under a couple strands of Christmas tree lights. When he replaced the lid on the tub, he carefully brushed away the dust on the handles to obscure his fingerprints.

 

* * *

 

"I think I'll wait in the car."

They were running errands in Manhattan and Peter had just informed him that there was a final stop to make before heading home.

"Oh, no. I'm not leaving you in my car unattended," Peter said.

Neal propped his elbow on the car door and rested his head on his hand. "What am I going to do, steal it?"

"I'd rather not take the chance." Looking sideways at Neal, he said, "Don't sulk. You think I enjoy having to keep my eyes on you?"

The car in front of them slowed down, and Peter stomped on the breaks.

"Would you watch the road?"

"Don't tell me how to drive. You know, I was at this nice apartment yesterday, talking to a fraud victim. You wouldn’t believe how well _her_ slave behaved. She didn't have to tell him to do anything. She even sent him out alone to run an errand."

"Not my fault if you choose to keep me on a tight leash. But seriously, making me come with you is cruel. Can I wait _outside_ the car?"

"We're only going to be a minute. Sara doesn't even know you're with me. You're the last thing she's interested in today." Peter sighed. "Look, Neal, I don’t want to embarrass you, but there's no guarantee that you'll never run into anyone you know. Besides, everyone knows you're a slave now."

"So," Neal muttered, "I can't see my friends, but I have to see people who don't like me."

Peter looked at him out of the corner of his eye. "What 'friends' am I keeping you from seeing? Kate?"

Neal just shrugged.

Logically, Neal doubted Peter was dragging him along to see Sara Ellis just to torment him. Peter didn't seem like one for public humiliation. He'd told Neal he just had to meet with Sara about some stolen jewels they were both investigating.

The problem was, Peter's idea of public humiliation was different from Neal's.

But Neal decided it was best not to complain any more. He didn't want to discourage Peter from taking him on errands in the future.

After Peter parked the car, they walked two blocks to a café. Sara was sitting at a table out front, sipping a cup of coffee. 

She smiled when she saw Neal. To Peter, she said, "I see you brought the new slave."

"We had some errands to run. I thought it'd be quicker to bring him along."

Peter sat across from Sara at the round table, and Neal took the seat between them. They both gave him a sharp look, and he realized it was because slaves weren't supposed to sit with free people without invitation. It probably would have been more appropriate for him to remain standing, or maybe to kneel on the hard tiled patio.

But since when had Neal cared about behaving like a good slave?

Turning to Sara, Peter said, "You said you had some ideas about a possible suspect?"

"Right," she said, reaching into her briefcase for a file. "Sterling-Bosch suspects it could have been an inside job. And I've stumbled upon some things that might be of interest." As she flipped through her notes, she glanced up at Neal and said, "So, how's slavery?"

"Surprisingly good, actually," Neal said brightly. "You can't beat free room and board. Thanks for asking."

"If it fits you so well, you can tell me where you stashed that Raphael. I'm sure you could get a few more years."

"I think I'm happy having him for the four," Peter said dryly.

Sara looked at Neal. "Better be careful, Caffrey. Sounds like you're already wearing out his patience."

"Oh, I think Agent Burke and I get along just fine."

"All right," Peter said softly, gently swatting Neal on the shoulder. "That's enough from you."

He wanted to argue that Sara had started it. Instead, he sat back and listened to them discuss the jewels. He could have helped them, probably. Who knew more about jewel heists than him? But he wasn't feeling charitable and, well, Peter _had_ told him to be quiet.

Neal took in his surroundings. He wished Peter had left him with the car—maybe then he could have gone off on his own for a few minutes. He moved his fingers along the outside of one of his pockets. He had twenty-five dollars with him, taken from the stash that Moz had given him. It was a risk bringing it—if Peter caught him with it, he'd think Neal picked someone's pocket. But Neal had brought it in case he might get to do some unsupervised shopping.

As Peter promised, the stop at the café was brief. As were getting up from the table, Sara said to Peter, "I hope you're keeping a close eye on him. I've recovered four runaway slaves this year."

"Oh, Neal knows better than to run."

Sara smiled. "I hope you're right."

 

* * *

 

That night, while Neal was drying dishes, Elizabeth came over to him and rubbed his back.

"Neal, how would you like to come to bed with me tonight?"

"Doesn't sound bad...." Neal said, cautiously. The only time he and Elizabeth made love at night was when Peter was working late. Tonight, Peter was in the living room, watching a game on TV.

"How would you feel if Peter joined us?"

Neal turned away. "Now I'm less interested."

"Oh, sweetie, he just wants to be included. And I'd really like to see the two of you together." She ran a finger down his arm. "I think it'd be really sexy."

Neal wasn't fooled. He knew she was trying to help Peter.

But in her soft tone and pleading eyes, Neal also saw some genuineness. He didn't have the heart to disappoint her, and he certainly wasn't stupid enough to. Elizabeth was more charitable toward him than Peter, and he didn't want to jeopardize it by making her think he was difficult.

After finishing with the dishes, Neal joined Peter in the living room. While Peter finished watching the game, Neal sat on the floor with a pencil and a pad of paper and drew. 

During a commercial, Peter looked down and said, "What are you drawing? It looks Medieval. Is that a Michelangelo sketch?"

"Good eye."

"Hm. Not sure I should be allowing you to make forgeries in my living room...."

Neal rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I'm sure I could fool the art world with lined paper and a number two pencil."

"All right you two," Elizabeth said, coming in from the kitchen, "no arguing." She joined Peter on the sofa and reached down to ruffle Neal's hair. "I like the drawing."

"If you guys got me an easel and some paint, I could do paintings for you. For the house."

"We'll see," Peter said dryly.

When the game ended fifteen minutes later, Elizabeth kissed Peter on the cheek and said, "Why don't we go upstairs? Neal is going to join us tonight."

Peter glanced down at Neal. "Oh, yeah?"

Elizabeth nodded. "Mm-hm."

Peter looked at him inquisitively. Neal was sure Peter was smart enough to question this turn of luck in his favor.

But the doubt was fleeting. 

Neal followed them upstairs. He'd never been in the master bedroom with both of them. He wasn't sure what they were hoping for. But as a slave, there was nothing wrong with standing back and waiting for orders. 

Peter and Elizabeth embraced for a minute, holding each other as though they were oblivious to Neal's presence. Neal had no particular desire to watch them make love. As Peter began to unbutton his shirt, Elizabeth excused herself. She grabbed an item of clothing from the bed and stepped out into the hall.

Peter sat on the bed with his shirt hanging open.

"C'mon," he said to Neal. "Get undressed and join us. El will be back in a minute."

Neal mechanically took off his clothes. He left his boxers on, but as he came over to the bed Peter stopped him and tugged them down to his knees. Neal obediently stepped out of them and joined Peter on the bed.

He'd never had a problem with nudity, so there shouldn't have been anything special about being naked now. But when he'd performed his sexual duties in the past, he'd always been at least partially clothed.

He lay on the bed while Peter took off his shoes and finished getting undressed.

Elizabeth still wasn't back. Peter sat with his back against the pillows and started stroking his cock. 

"While we wait for El, you can start getting me hard."

Neal inched closer and Peter put a hand on his shoulder, making him lean over. Neal thought about stalling, because he was sure Peter would lose a lot of interest in him once Elizabeth returned. But he decided he would rather suck Peter's cock than stare at it in this cramped position.

He was sucking dutifully when he heard Elizabeth come back in the room. He strained his eyes to try to get a look at her without removing Peter's cock from his mouth.

"I see you decided to start without me," Elizabeth said.

The bed dipped as she climbed in. She was wearing an oversized pajama shirt. It was unbuttoned, and she slipped it off her shoulders and let it fall to the bed. She reached down and ran a hand through Neal's hair.

Neal's sucking lagged as he tried to look at her. Thankfully, Peter was too distracted to notice. She leaned over Neal to kiss Peter, and Neal could feel her breasts against the back of his head.

Peter moaned and pushed Neal aside.

"All right," he said. "I think that's enough."

Peter's cock looked painfully hard. As he held Elizabeth, he was careful to avoid contact with it, obviously wishing to draw this out.

But Neal didn't want to focus on Peter's cock any more than he had to. Certainly not with Elizabeth in front of him.

Peter murmured something in her ear and she smiled. She lay down on the bed, spread her legs, and motioned for Neal to come over.

Neal's breath quickened. He quickly moved into position between her legs. She stroked his hair with a light touch while he kissed the insides of her thighs.

"Guess he's eager to go down on a beautiful woman," Peter said. It didn't sound like a complaint. He sounded too proud and aroused to care about the inequality in Neal's attention.

"He knows what he's doing," Elizabeth said fondly.

As he ran his tongue over her clit, he felt Peter's hand working its way between his legs, touching his balls and his hardening cock. Neal reflexively tried to jerk away, but Elizabeth rubbed his shoulders as if to say that he should let Peter do it.

Neal couldn't help but get hard when he was with Elizabeth. He could do without Peter fondling him. But he couldn't pull away from Peter without pulling away from Elizabeth. Peter kept rubbing his cock, and Neal put up with the attention until Elizabeth finally pushed him away.

Neal moved to the other side of the bed. Her cheeks pink with lust, Elizabeth pulled Peter close to her and wrapped her legs around his waist.

Neal didn't know what he was supposed to do now. Did they want him to stay there and watch while they fucked? Was he supposed to go now that he'd helped with the foreplay? He didn't dare touch his own hard cock—he didn't want them to think he was getting off from watching them.

In the end, he leaned against the pillows and tried to make it look like he was keeping his eyes on the bed. In truth, he couldn't help but watch and listen to the panting and moaning on the other side of the bed.

When they'd finished, Elizabeth sidled up to Neal, who was still aching and hard. With a kiss to his cheek, she started stroking his cock.

Neal thought about telling her it was unnecessary. He didn't know if he could come with Peter leering at him a couple feet away. But he couldn't help himself. Just as Elizabeth brought him to the brink, she let go and another, larger hand took over. Before he could react or move away, he came on Peter's hand. He was overcome with pleasure and embarrassment.

He shuddered, feeling exhausted and vulnerable. He realized that Peter and Elizabeth could do anything they wanted with him, and that they were the only people he had right now who would make him feel good.

Peter and Elizabeth left him there while they went to the bathroom to get cleaned up. Neal stretched out on a cool patch of the sheets while he waited. As soon as they were finished, he grabbed his boxers and headed for the bathroom.

He took his time cleaning up. It was a relief to clean the stickiness from his stomach. Now that the post-orgasmic glow was fading, he was embarrassed that he'd let Peter get him off. It was too personal, and up until now Neal had prided himself on not giving Peter anything of himself.

As he pulled his boxers on, he remembered that the rest of his clothes were still in the master bedroom. As he'd been in the bathroom for several minutes, he wasn't sure if it was too late to go back and retrieve them.

The bedroom door was still open, and Neal decided to take his chances. Peeking inside he said, "I just wanted to grab my clothes."

They were dressed in their pajamas and in bed. Peter was reading a book.

"That's fine," Elizabeth said. "But we meant to ask if you'd like to sleep with us tonight."

Neal raised his eyebrows. "You mean, in your bed?"

Peter glanced up from his book. "I'm not having you sleep on the floor. Last thing I need is to trip over you in the middle of the night. C'mon, we thought you deserved a treat."

Neal wasn't sure if sleeping in their bed counted as a treat. He was going to turn the offer down, but Elizabeth got up and grabbed a spare pillow that she'd set on the chair in the corner. She put it on the bed between her and Peter's pillows and patted the bed.

Well, if it was just for tonight....It wasn't Neal's ideal sleeping arrangement, but he could humor them. 

Neal climbed into bed. Elizabeth got in after him, securing him in between her and Peter. Neal burrowed under the covers and tried to figure out the most comfortable position. He curled his arm under his head to take pressure off his neck.

"You okay?" Elizabeth asked. "Is it your collar?"

"It's nothing. It just gets uncomfortable if I lie on it wrong."

Peter set down his book. "You know, they sell felt that you can stick between your neck and the metal to make it softer. We can get some for you if it'll help. It's not a big deal."

"Yeah? I thought you told me not to complain."

Elizabeth made a questioning sound and Peter said, "No, I never said that. I warned you because I didn't want you begging for a new collar on a whim, or looking for an excuse to have it taken off. Of course you're going to have some complaints—those collars are designed to be more durable than comfortable."

"It's all right. I'm used to it."

He'd been wearing a collar for two months, counting his time in training. That first collar had been even worse. At least the one Peter got him had softer edges and was lighter. But Neal didn't know if he'd ever get used to the damn thing entirely. 

Peter returned to his book, and Elizabeth switched off the lamp on her nightstand. Normally, Neal would read before going to sleep, or he would just lie in bed and think. He couldn't do either tonight. He could never let himself relax enough around them to lose himself in thought.

Surprisingly, it wasn't unpleasant. Maybe it was a treat to sleep in the Burkes' bed tonight after all, though not for the reasons they may have intended. It was nice to curl up under the covers and _not_ think about Kate, or how tired he was getting of slavery.

He dozed off quickly, but slept fitfully. He'd never slept well in a strange bed. He woke up a couple hours later to find the room dark and both Peter and Elizabeth asleep. He woke up a couple more times until morning came and Peter's alarm went off.

To Neal's shame, he discovered that he'd migrated closer to Peter, and was pressed against him. Peter didn't seem to mind at all. He turned off his alarm and hooked an arm around Neal's waist. On the other side of the bed, Elizabeth stirred.

"This is nice," Peter said softly. "I'm glad we had you sleep here. You do toss in your sleep, though."

"I could've warned you if you asked."

Peter held him for another minute before getting up.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neal attempts to meet with Kate.

"I talked to Kate. She's interested in meeting with you."

Neal and Mozzie were sitting in the park. Neal hadn't expected to see him again so soon, and he could tell from the moment Moz showed up that he had some sort of news. And any news Mozzie could give him had to be good.

"Really? That's great!"

"Give me a day and time, and I'll pass the information along. She can meet you here."

Neal thought about it. "How about Thursday? Maybe four-thirty? Peter will still be at work, and Elizabeth has a meeting with a client."

"Four-thirty on Thursday. I'll tell Kate."

"This is great, Moz. Thank you."

"Yes, well, normally I would object to playing the intermediary in your love life, but I understand these are special circumstances. Just...be careful, okay?"

"What do you mean?"

"Just be careful."

But the plan was already formed in Neal's mind, and he felt certain nothing could interfere.

 

* * *

 

On Thursday, Neal woke up to gray skies and drizzling rain. It was hard not to see it as an omen.

Still, Neal's plan was still in effect. He could stand a little rain. Elizabeth left at three, and she would be tied up until at least six.

At three-thirty, Neal was upstairs in his room when he heard the front door open.

Full of growing dread, he went downstairs to find Peter standing in the entrance with a dripping umbrella and a thick file folder.

"You're early," Neal said, making his voice as casual as possible. "Did you come home for lunch? You know Elizabeth has meetings, right?"

"No, I already ate lunch. They're doing some maintenance in the office and it was getting distracting. I thought I'd bring my work home."

Neal swallowed, but he didn't panic. This wasn't going to interrupt his plans. He'd pulled cons back from the brink of disaster before. This was nothing.

Peter set the folder on the coffee table and took off his coat. Neal followed him into the living room.

"I was actually going to take Satchmo out pretty soon. Thought I'd take him to the park."

Peter looked at him. "Oh yeah? Have you looked outside lately?"

"So there's a little drizzle. It's no big deal."

"I'm not having you take my dog out in the rain. If Satchmo needs to go out, I'm sure he'll be happy to make do with the back yard until the weather clears up."

"Okay, fine. I wanted to get some fresh air. I don't have to take Satchmo with me."

Peter's eyes narrowed. "And you can't wait to get fresh air until after the rain stops?"

"Why should I? I told you, I don't mind a little rain."

"I think you'd better just stay in for now. I mean, there's no hurry, right?"

"No, no hurry."

Peter nodded slowly. "Good...."

Neal didn't show any reaction. He stayed calm, telling himself that this didn't change anything. Hell, Peter might have been the one who caught him, but Neal had even more experience at eluding Peter.

Peter settled down in front of the TV. He switched it on and started browsing the channels.

"Man," he said, rubbing his eyes, "I'm beat."

"You should get some rest. El won't be back until later, and I was going to make dinner."

Peter nodded at the files on the coffee table. "I need to look over this stuff before tomorrow. Big jewelry theft case."

While Peter worked and watched TV, Neal retreated into the dining room. He sat at the table to look at the newspaper, a position in which he could observe Peter.

Going out the front door was obviously impossible. So was going out the back—the back yard was boxed in.

The next best option was to climb out a second-story window. He would have to choose one in the front of the house, as there was no exit out of the back yard. The master bedroom would work. The biggest risk was the neighbors seeing him, but most of them were at work right now.

Peter's eyes were getting heavy. Neal glanced at his watch and wondered what the chances were that he'd nod off in the next fifteen minutes.

He was supposed to meet Kate in a half hour. It could take eight minutes to walk to the park, and another eight to walk back.

Neal mimicked a yawn, hoping to subliminally push Peter along.

After what felt like an eternity, Peter's eyes closed and his head drooped back. Finally. This new plan was actually working out. Neal got up and went into the laundry room. He surveyed the shelves until he found what he was looking for: some rope and a pair of gardening gloves.

He walked through the living room as quietly as he could. Satchmo was resting on the rug by the sofa and lifted his head as Neal passed by, but Peter didn't budge.

Once upstairs, Neal went into the bathroom and started the shower. As he stepped back out into the hall, he closed the door behind him. He figured he could count on Peter being asleep for at least ten minutes. If Peter heard the shower running, it would hopefully be another fifteen minutes before it would occur to him to check on Neal. The only risk was if he decided to go into the master bedroom before Neal got back.

Neal opened the bedroom door and stepped inside. He pushed the door closed behind him and got right to work setting up the rope. He opened the window, tied the end of the rope around the leg of the bed, and tossed the free end out the window so that it hung against the front of the house.

The rope wasn't ideal, but it was the best he could manage. The drop from the second floor wasn't that bad. He tested the rope to make sure the bed would hold his weight. Before going out the window, he looked out to make sure no one was around to see him. He put on the gloves. Taking a deep breath, he straddled the windowsill and climbed out. He braced his feet against the siding and tried to repel down as gracefully as he could.

It worked all right until he was a few feet off the ground. He was running out of rope, and he let go and jumped. When he landed on the hard cement, there was a sharp pain in his ankle. 

For a horrible moment, he thought it was bad, that he'd broken or dislocated it. He crouched down, lifted his pant leg, and tenderly felt the bones of his ankle. It hurt, but nothing felt broken or out of place. For a second, he wondered if he needed to abandon his plan. But that thought left his mind as quickly as it came.

Gritting his teeth and ignoring the pain, he limped out the front gate and down the sidewalk.

Once he got going, the pain didn't slow him down much. The injury didn't seem as bad as it had at first. He made it to the park a few minutes before the agreed-upon meeting time, and waited, panting.

It was still raining, though it had let up to a steady drizzle. It was a cold day, and raindrops from the tree branches overhead soaked through his hair to the scalp, making him shiver.

As the minutes ticked by, Neal grew impatient. Kate was supposed to have been there five minutes ago, and she was never late. He thought Mozzie would have made it clear that time was precious. If she didn't show up soon, Neal would have to leave, but he didn't think he could bring himself to leave without seeing her.

He turned and ran a hand through his hair. He was standing by the bench where he usually sat when he came here, the one where he met Mozzie. Looking down, he saw something underneath the wooden slats of the seat. Kneeling down to investigate, he saw there was a plastic bag taped to the underside of the bench. Inside was a folded piece of paper.

Heart pounding, he took it. Through the plastic, he saw his name scrawled on the outside of the note.

Neal restrained himself from taking the note out and reading it right now. He didn't want to risk ruining it in the rain. There was one thing the note told him quite clearly, though: Kate wasn't showing up.

He didn't allow himself the time to process that. He was running out of time, and getting wet. He put the note in his pocket and hurried back home.

The rope was still hanging out of the bedroom window. That was good.

Neal took a deep breath and reached for it. All he had to do now was get back inside.

The climb up was more challenging than the climb down. His slippery shoes and sore ankle didn't help. As he finally pulled himself through the window, he lost his balance and landed on the floor with a thump. Neal cringed. He wondered what the chances were that Peter heard it.

Looking up, his heart skipped a beat when he saw the bedroom door wide open. His immediate thought was that Peter had come in, but if that were the case, Peter would have noticed the rope tied to the bed and leading out the window.

Instead, Satchmo was lying on the bedroom floor, looking at Neal inquisitively. Neal must not have closed the door all the way.

Satchmo was chewing on something. Closer inspection revealed that it was one of Elizabeth's leather pumps. Neal's eyes widened in horror when he saw it. There was no way he could keep Elizabeth from noticing that.

"Neal? That you? I heard a noise."

It was Peter's voice, on the stairs. Neal quickly assessed his options—he couldn't risk trying to close the door before Peter reached the top of the stairs. Better to let him think Satchmo had gotten into the bedroom on his own. Instead, Neal closed the window as quickly and quietly as possible and untied the rope from the bed. Then he shut himself in the closet.

He heard Peter come in the room.

"How'd you get in here, Satch? What do you have there?" Peter clicked his tongue. "Bad dog! You're in hot water with El."

Neal heard Peter's footsteps coming closer. He held his breath and clutched the nylon rope in his fist. 

The closet door opened, and Neal came face to face with Peter.

"Hi," Neal said.

" _Neal_ ," Peter said through gritted teeth. "Want to tell me what you're doing in here?"

Neal stepped out of the closet. "Long story. What gave me away?"

"The wet footprints." Peter gestured to the rain water that had collected on the windowsill and frowned.

"I wasn't running away, if that's what you think."

"No, judging by your wet shoes, I assume you were coming in, not going out. So, the shower—that some sort of diversion?"

Neal shrugged and Peter glared at him.

"Come with me," Peter said. As an afterthought, he snatched the rope from Neal's hand and put it on the bed.

Neal limped after Peter and followed him to the bathroom. Peter went inside and turned off the shower.

Drying his hand with a towel, he said, "The water's freezing. How long did you leave it running?"

"No more than twenty-five minutes."

"Dammit, Neal! Water isn't cheap. And did you have to use up the hot water?"

"I thought it'd be more convincing. You know, if there was steam on the mirror."

"I don't care what you thought. What the hell were you doing? You met with someone."

"No."

Peter put his hands on his hips. "Oh really?"

"I mean it! I didn't see anyone."

Peter pursed his lips. "You think I'm not going to get to the bottom of this? Take off your clothes."

Neal blinked. "What?"

"You heard me. You're soaked, and I need to search you. Hand them over."

Getting caught didn't scare Neal much. He didn't have the visceral fear of being caught that kept some people from committing crimes and some criminals from taking too many risks. How many times had Mozzie accused Neal of sticking his neck out too far? He knew getting arrested and convicted was supposed to make him more careful, but it hadn't.

But now his mouth went dry. Cool sweat collected on the back of his neck. He was very aware of Kate's letter in his pocket. He wished he'd thought to stash it somewhere before Peter found him. He could have stuck it in the closet somewhere, or under the bed, and collected it later. It was too late now.

He took off his shirt slowly and handed it to Peter. As Peter inspected it, Neal's hand moved to his pocket and he prepared to remove the letter while Peter wasn't watching.

Before he could, Peter set the shirt aside and said, "Shoes and socks."

Neal winced as he took off his left shoe, and Peter's eyes narrowed.

"Did you hurt yourself? You've been limping."

"It's nothing. I jumped and landed wrong. It's not that bad."

"Hm. We'll deal with that in a minute."

Neal's feet were cold and clammy. The tile floor, though cool, felt better than his wet socks.

Then he had to take off his pants. The seconds seemed to stretch on forever while he tried to think of a last resort to keep the letter from Peter. But Peter's eyes were glued to him and he had no choice but to hand over his jeans with the bag still in the pocket.

It only took a moment for Peter to retrieve it. Holding it up, he said, "So, this is what you climbed out my bedroom window to get?"

Neal didn't answer. Peter looked at the paper and raised his eyebrows. "Looks like Kate's handwriting."

He knew what Kate's handwriting looked like?

"You'd think if Kate wanted to give you a letter, she could've found a way to deliver it that didn't require you to come up with such an elaborate plan to sneak out."

"It wasn't supposed to be elaborate. I thought I'd have the house to myself today." Neal became defensive. He didn't like the implication that Kate had messed things up. "I was going to see her, but she wasn't there. She left that. I was telling you the truth, Peter—I didn't _meet_ with anyone."

"We'll discuss this. Right now, I need you to finish getting undressed."

Now that Peter had the letter, he must have known there wasn't much need to continue the search. But he was thorough.

Neal didn't care. Why should he? It wasn't his first strip search, and the only thing he'd cared about was Kate's letter.

He handed over his underwear and followed Peter's instructions. First, he lifted his arms over his head. Then he turned around and bent over with his legs spread. He reached back and pulled his buttocks apart.

It was difficult to keep his balance while keeping the weight off his left ankle, but thankfully, Peter didn't draw it out. 

He told Neal to stand and said, "Wait here. Don't move."

Peter left the bathroom, and the sound of his footsteps went upstairs. Neal frowned at the realization that Peter was going to his bedroom. Then he wondered how literal Peter had been when he said not to move.

Deciding to risk it, Neal got a clean bath towel off a shelf and tried to dry his hair. A minute later, Peter returned, carrying Neal's pajamas.

"Here," he said, handing them to him, "put these on, and we'll take a look at your ankle."

After dressing in the pajama pants and t-shirt, Neal sat on the toilet. He winched when Peter touched his ankle, but Peter evidently came to the same conclusion Neal had, that it wasn't severe.

"Do you think you can manage the stairs?" Peter asked.

Neal nodded.

"Then let's go downstairs."

Neal took it easy going down the stairs, holding onto the railing and stepping lightly on his left foot. Had he been by himself, he wouldn’t have exercised such caution. It wasn’t a serious sprain, and though Neal was light on his feet, he’d gotten banged up before. He was just good at not showing it. Once, he'd twisted his knee while climbing down a fire escape with stolen manuscripts, and it wasn’t until he and Mozzie returned to Neal's apartment that Moz realized he was hurt.

But he wasn’t about to discourage Peter’s sympathy. Deep down, Peter wasn’t a cruel guy. What’s more, he was smart. He wasn’t going to dismiss an injury too quickly. Neal knew better than to try to fake it. But if letting Peter see his discomfort mitigated Peter’s anger, then it was worth sacrificing some pride.

He needed Kate’s letter. He couldn't afford to have Peter _too_ pissed at him.

When they reached the first floor, Peter said, "Lie down on the sofa. I’m going to get some ice for your ankle."

"I don’t need ice."

"I don’t want to hear an argument right now. Go do it."

While Peter disappeared into the kitchen, Neal sat lengthwise on the sofa with his back against one of the arms and his legs stretched out. Peter came back after a minute, bearing an icepack.

"Here," he said, placing it on Neal’s ankle. "This should help."

Neal pulled an afghan off the back of the sofa and covered up. Once Neal had gained a semblance of comfort, Peter’s expression grew cold and hard.

"Right," he said, "now you’re going to tell me exactly what you were doing. No lies. No excuses."

"It’s like I told you. I just wanted to see Kate. We were supposed to meet but she didn’t show up. I just found the note."

"How did you plan this meeting? Kate contacted you?"

"She wanted to meet," Neal said carefully. He wasn’t going to say anything to expose Mozzie. "I set up a time. I didn’t expect to have any problem going out today."

"But then I came home."

"Then you came home, yeah."

"So, you cooked up a scheme that involved climbing out my bedroom window with a rope, driving up my water bill, and letting my dog sneak into my bedroom and destroy my wife’s things."

"Actually, I’m pretty sure Satchmo pushed the door open. I closed it—it must not have latched. You know, you might want to replace the doorknob. I don't think it latches as well as it—"

"Don’t blame the dog. Or the doorknob."

Neal's voice sobered. "Yeah, okay."

Peter stared at Neal with a gaze that would make the most suave conman nervous. Even Satchmo was making himself scarce.

"Look, I just needed to talk to her. That's all. Kate was supposed to take all my things that the state didn't auction off. No one could tell me if she claimed any of it. I just wanted to know my property is safe."

It wasn’t untrue. He _didn’t_ know what had happened to his things, and he would’ve asked Kate about that. But he wasn’t as concerned as he tried to make himself sound. No decent thief kept many valuables in his home, and he already knew Mozzie had some of his suits.

"That's reasonable," Peter said, "but it's something you should have talked to me about. I could have tried to find out for you. That's your problem, Neal—you haven't learned to trust my judgment or give up control. And now the only thing you're getting from me today is a punishment." Peter looked at his watch. "It's almost five. Here's what we're going to do: you're going to think about the mess you've gotten yourself into, and I'm going to keep an eye on you while I work. When El gets home, I'm going to tell her what you did."

Peter briefly went upstairs and came down with the rope and El's ruined shoe. He placed them on the dining room table as though he was collecting evidence of Neal's misadventures. Then he sat in a chair in the living room and reached for his files. Neal gave it a few minutes before trying to speak again.

"Listen," he said, "the thing is, I never actually read Kate's letter. Could I just see it for a minute?"

Peter didn't look up from the file he was reading. "Neal, I don’t think this is the time to be asking me for anything."

Neal pulled the afghan up to his chin and sank into the sofa.

The next hour was the most agonizing time Neal had spent in recent memory. All he could do was sit there, silently, while Peter exuded an angry aura and simultaneously guarded and ignored him.

When Elizabeth finally came home, Neal didn't even get a chance to tell her his side of things.

Peter got up and kissed her, and then then she noticed Neal.

"What's going on?" she asked.

Before Neal could say anything, Peter said, "Neal is in big trouble."

Neal had hoped for some sympathy from El. He tried to give her an apologetic look. But she barely looked at him. Instead, she gave him a quick, questioning look before following Peter into the kitchen, where Neal could hear them speaking in hushed tones. 

At one point, Elizabeth raised her voice and said, "Is that my shoe?!"

Neal stifled a groan. He tried to make out what was being said, but they were purposely keeping their voices low. At first he wondered why they didn’t just go upstairs, but every few minutes, Peter would peek around the corner, as though making sure Neal was still on the sofa.

The third time he did it, Neal smiled and waved. Peter looked unimpressed.

The icepack on Neal’s ankle was melting, and his ankle was numb from the cold. He took it off and dropped it on the floor. He experimentally flexed his ankle. It still hurt a little to move it, but he didn’t think he’d have any trouble walking. 

After fifteen minutes, Peter and Elizabeth returned. Now, Elizabeth’s expression was _almost_ as angry as Peter’s, but with more overt disappointment. She took the chair Peter had vacated, and Peter stood in front of the sofa with his hands on his hips.

Neal sat up and put his feet on the floor. The afghan was still draped over his body.

"Do you understand what you did wrong today?" Peter asked. "Why we need to punish you?"

Neal shrugged numbly. "Sure."

"Tell me."

Neal looked up at him. "What do you want me to say?"

"If you can’t tell me, then I’ll tell you."

Neal couldn’t help himself. "Should I be taking notes?"

Peter’s eyes narrowed. "If it prevents this from happening in the future, be my guest. We’re not mad because you wanted to see Kate. We don't think it's a good idea for you to see her, but we understand. But there are rules, and wanting to see your girlfriend is not an excuse to break them. You went behind our backs, and you pulled a ridiculous stunt. You're lucky it didn't result in more damage than it did."

Neal looked at Elizabeth. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry about your shoe. I didn’t know Satchmo would do that."

"I’m not even that upset about the shoe," Elizabeth said sadly. "Accidents happen. It’s _how_ it happened that bothers me."

"Again, let’s not blame Satchmo," Peter said. "He’s a dog. We know he’s going to be tempted to give in to his instincts. That’s why we close our bedroom door. You, on the other hand, should be able to use better judgment. You could have gotten hurt climbing out the window. Did you even think about that?"

"I’m not an idiot. I wouldn’t have climbed out if I didn’t know I could make it."

Elizabeth gestured to his ankle. "But you _did_ hurt yourself. What if it’d been worse? What if Peter had to take you to the hospital?"

Neal didn’t have an answer for that. Elizabeth continued.

"And did you even consider what would happen if someone saw you? One of the neighbors could have called the police."

"Right," Peter said. "They wouldn't have been able to charge you with anything, but if the police apprehend you for any reason, it will go on your record. That means it would count against you if there are any future problems. If El and I were inclined to sell you, potential buyers would know about it. Your insurance would go up."

Oh, God forbid they had to pay higher premiums on him. The idea of having a record was sobering, however. One would think that it couldn’t get much worse than being enslaved. But cons who got in trouble _while_ they were enslaved could be punished by the court, and they even fewer privileges.

"And have you considered how it could affect Peter’s career?" Elizabeth said. "If it looks like he can’t watch his own slave, do you think people are going to take him seriously?"

Peter took a deep breath. "And they might not be wrong. I _am_ accountable for your behavior." He shook his head. "I think I’m partly to blame here. Maybe I should have been firmer with you from the start, enforced the boundaries a little more. I didn’t want to crack down on you before you’d broken the rules, but I don’t think I did you any favors by being so soft."

Peter thought he’d been _soft?_ Neal didn’t want to learn what strict was like. But he suspected he was about to find out.

"And Kate," Peter said. "She’s not blameless in this."

Neal’s gaze shot up. "She didn’t do anything wrong. She cares about me. Is that a crime?"

"I’m sure she does care for you, but she didn’t show it very well by putting you in this position. And yes, conspiring with a slave to disobey his masters can be a misdemeanor."

"So I wouldn’t be charged with anything, but she could be?" Neal's nostrils flared. "But you said it yourself—you expect me to use good judgment. Which is it? Am I accountable for my actions, or is it you and Kate?"

Peter hesitated. "Legally? Both. There are rules you need to follow, but it's our responsibility to make you follow them. And Kate shouldn't be helping you stray. Don't defend her—she should have known better. I'm half-tempted to file a report."

Neal's eyes widened in alarm. "No, Peter, you can't. It’s not fair."

"No one said your life is going to be fair." Peter snapped.

Neal swallowed. "Kate didn’t do anything wrong. Meeting was my idea. She trusts me to know what I’m doing." He hoped they wouldn’t ask him how he established contact with her. "If someone has to be punished, it should be me. I can take responsibility for my own actions. Just leave her out of it, please."

Peter nodded slowly. "I’m glad you're willing to take responsibility. Maybe there's hope for you yet." He looked at Neal's ankle. "How are you feeling? If you need to postpone your punishment until tomorrow, we can."

"I'm fine," Neal said. His voice had lost its passion. He just wanted the night to be over.

"Good. Then I think we should get it over with." Turning to Elizabeth he said, "I'll be right back."

Peter went upstairs. Neal pressed his forehead against the heel of his hand. Elizabeth watched him with a sad expression, but didn't speak.

Looked up at Elizabeth, he said, "I just wanted to see her. That's all."

"I know. I wish you'd talked to us. Maybe we could have discussed it with you."

"I already asked Peter about Kate. I just wanted to know how she was, and I didn't even find out that."

"That's because Peter didn't have an answer for you. You need to give us a chance, here."

"So I should have kept asking?" He scoffed. "I don't think that would have gone over well."

What did she expect of him? If he relied on their support, he'd never win. And no matter how much trouble he was in, it was still easier to beg forgiveness than permission.

"According to Peter, you're a good conman. I'm sure you're used to using words to get what you want. The only difference here is that you need to be honest."

"You realize telling a conman to be honest is like telling Satchmo not to want to chew on shoes, right?" He glanced at the stairs to make sure Peter wasn't coming back. "Did Peter tell you Kate left me a letter?"

Elizabeth tensed. "He did."

"Did he tell you I haven't even read it? I need to see it. I don't even have to keep it. Just read it."

She bit her lip. "Peter's concerned there could be a coded message in it. He doesn't want to risk showing it to you yet."

Before Neal could respond, Peter came downstairs. He was carrying a black leather paddle, the kind they sold in slave supply stores. Neal felt like groaning when he saw it.

He'd never been paddled before. He wondered if it was better or worse than the switches the guards at the processing center used on him. The bad thing about the switch was that it left welts, and he always seemed to earn new welts as soon as the old ones had healed.

Peter walked over to the sofa and motioned for Neal to get up. Neal did so with a slightly-exaggerated sigh, and Peter took his place on the sofa. He set the paddle at his side.

"How long have you had that thing?" Neal asked.

"Long enough. I think it might get more use from now on." He patted his lap. "Take off your pants and get over my knee."

Neal looked at Elizabeth for a reprieve, but saw little sympathy. Instead, she said, "Go on, Neal. It'll be better to get it over with."

He realized there was no way out of it. He'd practically asked Peter to punish him—he couldn't try to sweet-talk his way out of this one. Not without making Peter question his decision to let Neal take full responsibility for what happened. Slowly, he took off his pajama bottoms and cast them aside. He was very aware of his near-nudity, even more so than during the strip search.

He draped himself over Peter's legs and rested the upper half of his body on the sofa. He buried his face in a throw pillow and bit his lip when Peter reached under his hips and adjusted his cock and balls.

"Just making you comfortable," Peter said. "You're going to be in this position for a while." He put a firm hand on Neal's back.

The air in the room was cool against his bare ass. He braced himself for the paddle, but instead, Peter's hand delivered the first blow. The sound of Peter's hand hitting his bare skin cracked like a whip and Neal winced. Several more rapid blows followed, creating a growing sting and ache in Neal's bottom. Peter alternated sides, giving each of Neal's cheeks equal attention. Then he slowly moved downward, assaulting Neal's tender thighs and the spot where they joined his ass.

Neal tried not to squirm, but he couldn't help it. Peter's response was to loop his arm around Neal's waist and hold him down firmly. With his other hand, he continued the onslaught on his thighs, which now stung as much as his backside did.

By the time the blows finally stopped, Neal had almost forgotten about the paddle. But the next thing he felt was the cool leather against his sore skin. There were holes punched in the paddle, and the edges were rough. Unable to help himself, he groaned into the pillow he was holding onto.

He gasped at the first blow. It was so much worse than Peter's hand! He didn't know if it was worse than the switch, but at least when the guards switched him, there were only a few blows. They never put him over their knees, and they were never as _thorough_ as Peter was.

"Ow! Peter! You don't have to do it so hard!"

"Hard? You think that's hard? I'm not even using half my strength. Do you want me to show you what 'hard' feels like?"

"No! No, that's not necessary."

Peter kept paddling him. "Maybe I should have done the whole spanking with the paddle, instead of using my hand first."

Using his hand first was supposed to be _merciful_? It felt more like he'd been tenderized.

It felt like the paddling went on forever. Finally, Peter stopped and set the paddle aside. He placed his hand on Neal's bottom.

"There," he said, sounding satisfied. "I don't think we'll be having any more trouble for a while. Will we?"

Neal buried his head into the pillow and mumbled out, "No."

Peter gently patted his ass, making him twitch. "All right, it's all over. You can get up."

Neal stood slowly. Elizabeth handed him his pajama bottoms, and he quickly pulled them back on. After Peter got up, Neal returned to the sofa. Before going into the kitchen, Elizabeth gave him a quick hug.

They didn't make him cook dinner that night. Instead, Elizabeth called in for a pizza. When it was time to eat, she put a pillow on Neal's chair for him. He was too exhausted to be embarrassed.

Dinner was quiet. Peter and Elizabeth barely even spoke to each other, and Neal didn't have it in him to pretend that everything was back to normal. Maybe from Peter's point of view, the paddling brought resolution. But for Neal, the facts remained the same: he hadn't seen Kate, and now Peter wouldn't even let him have her letter.

Neal only picked at his food. When he'd finished, he said, "Do I need to do anything before I go to bed?"

Peter shook his head. "No. Any dishes can wait until tomorrow. I still want you to rest your ankle."

"Then if you don't mind, I'll go upstairs."

Of course, just because Neal was exhausted didn't mean he could sleep. He lay awake in bed for hours. He listened as Peter and Elizabeth went to bed downstairs.

In the dark silence, dangerous thoughts occurred to him. He thought about leaving. He could do it—he had the passport and money. He had the code for the alarm system. He could sneak out and they wouldn't notice for hours.

But where would he go? He didn't have any way of taking off his collar, so Peter would be able to locate him as soon as he discovered him missing. Perhaps Mozzie could figure out a way to cut the collar off or at least disable the GPS. Or maybe Mozzie could sneak him out of the country in the next few hours. The collar wouldn't matter as much if Neal was out of U.S. jurisdiction. But Neal couldn't bring himself to risk Mozzie by leading a GPS trail to him.

He could go to a hospital, maybe. If they thought he was hurt, and that the collar needed to be removed in order to treat him, they'd take it off. He'd have to contend with the guards, but it was an opportunity, wasn't it?

Thinking about it, he got a pleasant tingling sensation in his gut, like he did before pulling a heist. He'd missed that feeling. His legs twitched as though they had a mind of their own, and wanted to lead Neal out of the house and to freedom.

But then the events of that afternoon brought him crashing back down to reality. Neal hated to admit it, but Peter had been right—he'd been careless. He couldn't let his situation make him desperate. If he ran now, the chances of being caught were too big.

Resigned, he burrowed under the blanket and closed his eyes.

He eventually found sleep, but it was light and fitful. He was awake in the morning when Peter, as usual, came upstairs and cracked open his door.

This morning, instead of pretending to be asleep, Neal lifted his head and looked at him.

He wasn't sure why he did it. Right now, Peter was the last person he wanted to see. But Peter had been so mad at him, and Neal didn't want to wait all day to find out if his feelings had softened overnight. The sooner they cleared the air, the better.

"Hey," Peter said softly. He hesitated, and then stepped into the room. He came over to the bed and pulled down Neal's blanket. Then he reached for the waistband of Neal's pants.

Neal jerked. "What are you doing?"

"Just checking the damage." He tugged the pants down to Neal's thighs and rubbed Neal's ass with surprising tenderness.

Neal put his head back on the pillow.

"You can barely tell you were punished," Peter said with a small smile. "I knew there wouldn't be too many marks. You're not too sore, are you?"

"Not anymore," Neal said.

"That's good. I know I'm probably not your favorite person right now. But at least with a spanking, it's over soon. You know what I mean? The punishment's over, and we can all move on. You might not appreciate it, but I take good care of my property. That means disciplining you when you need it."

"So you're not angry?"

"No, I'm not angry. But don't think I'm going to forget about this, either."

Neal tried to muster up a charming smile. "Wouldn't expect any less from you."

Peter pulled his pants back up and gave his shoulder a squeeze. "Good."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neal attempts to get back on Peter's good side, but isn't prepared for Peter's requests.

Peter's anger may have been temporary, but the consequences were longer-lasting.

Neal was no longer allowed to take walks unsupervised. To prevent him from sneaking out when he was home alone, Peter made it clear that he checked Neal's GPS frequently. When he got home from work, he made a display of getting on the computer and checking Neal's movements over the course of the day.

Neal was starting to feel like a gold bar locked up in Fort Knox. Except, he knew how to get gold out of Fort Knox. Getting himself out of a Brooklyn townhouse for a few minutes of fresh air and solitude shouldn't have been difficult.

To add insult to injury, Peter wouldn't leave him alone. One afternoon, Neal was looking out the front window when the phone rang. It was Peter.

"Hey," Neal said, "did you need something?"

"Nope, just seeing how it's going."

Seriously? Looking at his tracking data wasn't enough?

"I'm staying in the house like you said. Right now, I'm staring out the window and wasting away from boredom."

"Well, when you're done with that, you can clean Satchmo's food bowl."

"Yes, sir."

"That's what I like to hear."

Neal hung up with a sigh. He got up and attended to Satchmo's food and water bowls. Satchmo watched while Neal washed and refilled them.

"There you go," Neal said. "You'd probably rather have a walk about now, but we're in lockdown."

Satchmo whined and nibbled at the food.

It wasn't like Neal couldn't handle an afternoon at home. Usually, he cherished them, grateful for the peace and quiet. But he liked it to be on his terms, and being confined to the house was starting to do a number on him.

Wandering back into the living room, he stopped in front of the bookshelf. He was trying to decide which of El's art books to look at when something caught his eye.

It was one of Peter's slave training books. A disturbing number of post-it notes stuck out of the top. Peter had really been studying.

Neal pulled out the book and flopped down on the sofa. The book was called _Owning and Training the New Slave_. He opened it to the first chapter and started to read. 

_Many people are wary of purchasing and training newly-sentenced slaves. It's true that an inexperienced slave can require significant training, and the period of time between sentencing and auction offers little insight into the slave's skills and personality that could help you make an educated purchase. However, the effort you put into training your new slave can more than pay off in the long run. Buying a new slave means you can bond with it and train it to your desire, without competing with previous masters and their training._

Neal raised an eyebrow and flipped to a page that Peter had bookmarked. To his displeasure, he saw that it was in the middle of a chapter about sex.

_Regular, gentle training will help your slave become accustomed to your desires. Be prepared to take things slow. Though your focus may or may not be on your slave's pleasure, it's good to make sex a mutually agreeable experience. Try not to make sex a source of conflict. If your slave is content, it will give you little trouble."_

Was that was Peter thought was going to happen? That Neal would cooperate if the training was "gentle"? He gave Peter some credit for _wanting_ his cooperation, but he wasn't fooled, either. Peter just wanted to make things easier for himself. At least Peter hadn't touched him since Thursday.

Neal turned to another bookmarked page. This one was in a chapter titled "Disciplining Your Slave."

_Some disobedience is common. New slaves often make innocent mistakes, such as forgetting rules about speech or furniture restrictions. With proper reinforcement, your slave will eventually learn the rules. It's also normal for new slaves to intentionally act out. This can be a way of expressing frustration, or a desperate attempt to resist authority. It's important that you deal immediately with undesirable behavior, and this chapter will outline different ways to discipline your slave effectively. But don't be too quick to worry that your slave's actions are a sign of serious behavioral issues. By six to eight months, most slaves adjust to their new lives and masters. But it's important that you provide clear boundaries and fair and consistent discipline._

Neal closed the book with a frown. He didn't think about it often, but he knew Peter had never owned a slave before. Neal wished he'd paid more attention to slavery in the past. Maybe then he'd know more about the type of advice masters got. He could understand Peter's motivations and anticipate his moves.

Elizabeth was more confident with slaves. Neal was a bit ashamed to admit it, but he had a hard time disobeying her. He told himself it was because she was kind to him, but it was also that she knew how to wield authority without making it so obtrusive. 

Peter was too used to throwing his weight around as an FBI agent. And unfortunately, he seemed to take the advice about "consistent discipline" to heart. Though from Neal's perspective, it was hardly "fair."

He tried to stay on Peter's good side after the paddling. But the truth was, they were both on edge. Peter may not have been mad, but his patience was thin. And Neal wouldn't forget the disappointment of the failed meeting with Kate anytime soon. 

A couple days later, Neal made the mistake of snapping at Peter when he asked why the refrigerator hadn't been cleaned out yet.

"I'll do it now," Neal said.

"That's fine, but I want to know why you didn't do it yesterday when I told you to."

"Because I have more important things to worry about than your trash."

Peter put his hands on his hips. "Watch it. I don't like your tone."

Neal knew he was going too far. Peter didn't mind the occasional smart comment. He even seemed to find Neal's attitude endearing. But outright backtalk was a different matter.

But he couldn't help it.

"I'm sorry," he said sharply, "I guess you'd like me to be more subservient?"

"I'd like you to show me a little more respect."

"Like you showed me when you took away a letter that was meant for me?"

"We're not dealing with that letter right now, so you can just put that on hold. And I'm over what happened. I suggest you move on, too."

How could he when Kate's letter was hanging over his head, just out of reach?

Peter continued. "Your attitude has been getting worse since Thursday. I can't say I blame you, but it's gone on long enough. And now you're letting your chores fall by the wayside. I don't want to have to discipline you again, but I will."

Neal thought of the paddle. The memory was almost enough to make him back down. _Almost_.

"Fine. I'm your slave—do whatever you want."

Peter's eyes narrowed. "Okay. If that's how you want it."

With that, he turned and left the room. Neal swallowed and wondered if he should follow. He was sure that Peter was going to get the paddle, and he cursed himself for pushing things so far. He was better than this. He was a good conman. He knew how to handle people.

He opened the refrigerator and slowly started to throw out old take-out boxes and expired bottles of salad dressing. If Peter came back to find him busy, it might help.

Peter returned a few minutes later. He didn't have the paddle, but what he was carrying didn't look much better.

"Peter? I-is that a _gag_?"

"Yep. Open up."

It was a black ball gag with a leather strap. Neal was too shocked at first to move, but when Peter brought the ball up to his mouth, he stepped back and bumped into the counter.

"This is ridiculous."

"It's appropriate. Now open up."

Neal tried to speak, but Peter stuck the ball in his mouth. He buckled the strap around Neal's head and walked over to the timer on the refrigerator. He set it for fifteen minutes.

If Neal could speak, he'd say that a gag was demeaning and unnecessary. But maybe that was the point, to embarrass him. It felt strange, too. He fought to keep the saliva from building up in his mouth. 

After a few minutes, Peter's cellphone vibrated. Answering it, he got up and walked out of the room.

Once Peter was out of sight, Neal reached behind his head and unbuckled the strap. He extracted the ball from his mouth and flexed his jaw.

He had a few minutes of respite before he heard Peter's footsteps returning. He hurried to replace the gag, but he must have misgauged how far away Peter was. He was still fiddling with the buckle when Peter came back into the room and froze.

Realizing he was caught, Neal took out the gag and lowered his hands. "I just took it out for a second," he said. "My jaw was getting sore."

"Oh, so you're saying you prefer a sore ass?"

Neal swallowed. "I didn't say that...."

"I can't turn my back for five minutes...." Peter grumbled.

Neal cocked his head. "C'mon, Peter. You didn't even cuff me. If you're going to gag someone, you have to restrain their hands."

"I'll remember that."

Peter walked over and yanked the gag from Neal's hands. Neal stood still while Peter put it back on him. Peter re-set the timer for fifteen minutes, starting again from the beginning.

While he waited it out, Neal sat at the dining room table with Peter. He crossed his arms and kept his eyes downcast.

When the timer finally went off, Peter got up and stopped it without a word. He unbuckled the gag and then walked around to face Neal. He hooked his finger through the buckle and dangled the gag.

"What was the lesson here?" Peter asked.

Neal avoided Peter's eyes. He didn't intend to answer, but it was clear Peter was waiting for him to respond. "Watch what I say."

"Right." Peter reached out with his free hand and patted Neal's shoulder. "It's not that I don't get it. I know things have been stressful for you lately. But that doesn't mean you can be disrespectful and shirk your duties. My being too soft on you is what caused the problem in the first place." He paused and added, "But if you want to actually talk, you know, about Kate or whatever, we can. You know that, right?"

"Yeah," Neal said softly. But he wouldn't. He had to keep some parts of his life to himself. His thoughts and his past were all he had that were his own.

 

* * *

 

Deep down, Neal knew he had a tough time being rational when Kate was involved. If he hadn't been desperate to win her back, he wouldn't have been arrested in the first place. And if he hadn't been so bitterly disappointed over the failed meeting and confiscated letter, he might have been able to think more strategically.

Eventually, he started to regain some of his optimism. He had to look at things practically: He wanted his privileges back, and he wanted Kate's letter. In order to get both of those things, he needed to suck up to Peter and Elizabeth.

He decided to start with food. It was hard not to win people over with good cooking. It wasn't difficult to convince Elizabeth to let him splurge on ingredients, and one afternoon, Neal spent all day chopping vegetables and grinding fresh herbs. When Elizabeth came home, he insisted that she relax and let him finish the preparation on his own.

Dinner was a risky venture, because Neal never knew when Peter would have to work late. And re-heated salmon wouldn't be nearly as impressive. But Peter came home just as Neal was finishing.

Elizabeth kissed Peter on the cheek and said, "Honey, Neal's making salmon for us tonight. He's been cooking since before I got home."

Peter looked over Elizabeth's shoulder at Neal, who was at the stove with his sleeves rolled up. "Oh yeah? Smell's good. Any special occasion I don't know about?"

"No occasion, I was just in the mood to cook and figured you guys would like a nice dinner."

Peter raised his eyebrows and looked a little suspicious. Neal did like to cook, but he didn't always make this much effort.

He thought his rolled-up sleeves and the hair falling into his face helped create the appearance of hard work.

Peter walked over to the stove and sniffed at the vegetables that were cooking on the stove.

"Is that squash?" he asked, skeptically. 

Neal gently swatted him away. "You'll like it. Trust me."

"Hm."

Neal was certain Peter would like it. But at least good cooking was something _he_ could enjoy, regardless.

It was still good to see Peter and Elizabeth enjoy their meals. Especially Peter. Neal wasn't sure if Peter was the sort to give an A for effort, so if Neal wanted to impress him, he had to pull it off.

"You know," Peter said with a smile, "you've raised the bar for yourself, here."

Neal shrugged. "You knew I could cook. If you give me the ingredients, I can make meals like this more often."

Neal didn't speak much over dinner. Peter dominated the conversation, telling Elizabeth about a case at work. Neal listened without showing too much interest.

But later, when Neal was clearing the table, Peter said, "Hey, it's a nice evening and I was going to take Satchmo out. You wanna join us? Dishes can wait."

Neal looked up. "Yeah, sure."

He could feel his heart beat faster, but he kept a casual smile on his face. He'd been under virtual house arrest since he snuck out.

Even going out with Peter was an improvement.

His happiness soured when he stepped into the living room to find Peter pulling his leash off the hook on the wall.

He wanted to question the point of it. Peter couldn't actually think he'd try to run. And if Neal wanted to run, he didn't think he'd have a hard time catching Peter off-guard and wrenching the leash from his grasp. No, it was just one of Peter's stupid attempts to prove who was in charge.

But Neal bit his tongue and let Peter clip it to his collar. He reminded himself of the necessity to take small steps like this.

At least it was dark out.

When he got outside, he was glad he conceded. It was a crisp, clear night, and Neal breathed deeply to fill his lungs with fresh air. He hadn't been out much after dark, and the neighborhood looked different. He automatically studied his surroundings, a part of his brain telling him that it was important. Logically, he knew he had no plans to run. But his instinct was to be prepared.

"That was a nice dinner tonight," Peter said.

"Like I said, I enjoy cooking."

Satchmo slowed to sniff at a lamppost, and Peter and Neal paused to let him satisfy his curiosity.

"I'm glad," Peter said. "It's good for you to have some productive, meaningful pursuits."

Neal couldn't help but smirk. "Is that something you read in one of your slave books?"

Peter returned the smile. "Yeah, maybe." He shook his head. "I don't know what some of that stuff even means. I understand criminals. But this slave business is a whole other ball game."

Neal scoffed. "Oh, you're telling me?"

"Yeah, I know it's an adjustment. That's why I have to be the bad guy sometimes and enforce the rules. Like it or not, you're going to have to learn to be a good slave."

Neal bowed his head and nodded. "No, I understand that now. I do."

Looking at Peter out of the corner of his eye, he saw another brief flash of skepticism like he'd seen earlier that evening. He wondered if he'd pushed it too far tonight. Peter wasn't stupid.

But Peter clapped a hand on his shoulder and gave it a supportive squeeze.

"C'mon," he said. "It's getting cold. Let's head back."

 

* * *

 

For the next couple weeks, Neal did his best to be a good slave.

He spent whole afternoons cleaning up without being told to. He organized the junk drawer in the kitchen. (It was always interesting to go through the things that people discarded or forgot. And Peter and El would never notice that he took some paperclips, string, and extra pencils for his own use.)

He didn't complain about being led around on the leash. He rubbed Peter's feet and shoulders when he came home exhausted.

But after two weeks of cleaning and obeying with a smile on his face, Neal didn't have anything to show for it except a loss of dignity. He still didn't have Kate's letter.

He tried not to be hasty. He knew the value of a long con. But suddenly he wasn't convinced that this con would pay off. He also knew the risks of trying to pull a con on someone who could see through him. For all he knew, Peter was aware of what he was doing and had chosen to reap the benefits of it indefinitely.

And then there was another tactic that Neal would barely consider.

Peter still hadn't touched him. He hadn't demanded any form of sexual service in weeks. At first, Neal had attributed it to Peter being unhappy with him, but now he wasn't sure. Maybe the novelty had simply worn off. Maybe Peter had realized he had finite stamina, and preferred to exhaust it with his wife.

Peter's attraction to him was something Neal didn't want to mess with. But maybe a few small reminders would help stir Peter's sympathy and give Neal a card to play with.

One evening, he came downstairs while Peter and Elizabeth were watching TV. Peter did a double take, narrowed his eyes, and said, "Why aren't you wearing a shirt?"

"I'm going to get in the shower," Neal said casually.

As he walked into the kitchen, he let his pajama bottoms hang low on his hips. He got a drink of water to justify coming downstairs, and then walked back through the living room. He took his time, giving Peter the chance to get a look. He didn't look at Peter, but out of the corner of his eye, he could see Peter watching him.

While he was running the water for his shower, he started to feel disgusted with himself. He shivered, suddenly aware of how cool the house was getting now that it was nearly November.

He never would have considered himself desperate, but now he wondered if that was all this was: desperation.

Except, "this" was just another part of the con. Was pandering to Peter's sexual interest any worse than fooling Peter into thinking he could be a good slave?

Stepping into the shower, he rested his forehead against the cool tile for a minute while the water ran down his back.

Then he put the matter out of his mind.

 

* * *

 

The following Saturday, Elizabeth was doing a wedding and Neal and Peter had the house to themselves.

Ever since breakfast, Neal had caught Peter looking at him when he thought Neal wouldn't see. It made the hairs rise on the back of Neal's neck.

For the past couple hours, Peter had been looking over a file from work. He had everything spread out on the coffee table. Neal had decided he didn't feel like spending the afternoon alone, so he was sitting by Peter's legs, idly sketching on a pad of yellow lined paper.

Then he felt Peter's hand in his hair. He tensed.

"Your hair's getting long," Peter said.

Neal scoffed quietly. He was just noticing this now?

"That's what happens when I can't get it cut for a few months."

Peter murmured and tugged on a lock of his hair. "We'll have to do something about it. I have some clippers. Maybe we could take a little off...."

Neal whipped his head around. "You're not seriously suggesting you cut my hair."

Peter shrugged innocently. "Just trim it a little."

"No, Peter, you can't. That's cruel and unusual, and you know it."

Peter rolled his eyes. "You're just being dramatic."

"Yeah, well, some things should be left to professionals. Think about it—how would you feel if your barber bought a gun and decided to investigate art thefts in his spare time?"

"All right, all right," Peter said. He grumbled under his breath, and then sighed. "El likes your hair, anyway. She probably wouldn't want me messing with it."

"Good. She's smart."

Peter playfully cuffed him on the back of the head. Then he leaned forward and started straightening up the file he'd been looking through.

"Enough work for now. I was thinking you and I could have some fun today," Peter said. 

Neal knew it. He'd known it since Peter first eyed him over breakfast. He'd had a sense of foreboding all day.

"Fun...." he said.

"Yes, fun. C'mon, let's take a shower."

"Together?"

"Together."

Neal pushed himself to his feet. "You never struck me as the type to want your slave to bathe you."

Then again, he didn't believe that _bathing_ was what Peter actually had in mind.

Neal had never showered with Elizabeth. He'd massaged her shoulders once while she soaked in the bath, and that was all right. If Peter had wanted something like that, Neal could handle it.

But once they were in the shower, it took him less than a minute to decide it wasn't working out. There was no room to move—Peter had him pinned in, trapped under the showerhead. When Neal tried to step around, Peter took his movement as an invitation to put his hands on his hips and pull him close. He planted a kiss on Neal's lips.

Peter's groin was pressed against Neal's. Neal tried to pull away, but Peter still had him locked in a kiss and his grip on Neal's hips was surprisingly strong.

Peter had never been this physical with him before, and Neal was unprepared for it. Even when he'd suggested the shower, Neal somehow hadn't realized that it would mean this much contact. The feeling was so foreign that for a minute, Neal didn't fight it. He let Peter push his tongue past his lips.

Then reality hit him. He realized Peter was going to pull him across a line he didn't want to cross. He broke off the kiss and turned his face away from the water. Water still trickled down to his nose and mouth, and he coughed.

"I feel like I'm downing, here," he said. "Could you...."

"Oh, right."

Peter let go of his hips and gave him space to move. The spell was broken, and Neal took a deep breath, relishing the small but comfortable distance between them.

Peter grabbed the bar of soap and started to wash himself. He soaped up a spare washcloth and handed it to Neal, and Neal realized they actually were going to bathe. But Peter wasn't content to let him handle it on his own. He soaped up his hands and ran them over Neal's chest and abs. Finally, he stroked Neal's cock and fondled his balls with a soapy palm.

Before Neal could object, Peter turned him around so that he was facing the wall of the shower. Peter's fingers found their way into the crack of his ass, and Neal made an undignified noise of protest. Peter ignored him. Using one of the washcloths, he rubbed Neal's hole. He wasn't rough, but the quick efficiency of his actions made Neal squirm.

"You're not very good at this sexy shower thing," he said.

"I didn't ask for a critique."

When they were finished, Neal rinsed off and got out as quickly as he could. They both wrapped towels around their waists, and Neal tried to escape upstairs for a clean pair of boxers. But Peter grabbed him by the arm and steered him into the master bedroom.

"Have a seat," Peter said, pointing to the bed.

Neal flopped down. He'd toweled off his hair, but it was still wet. Drops of water ran down the back of neck.

While Neal air-dried on the bed, Peter walked over to the dresser. He opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a lacquered wooden box. "You know, I didn't just buy a paddle and gag at the slave store. I got you some fun things, too." He set the box on the bed. "Go on, take a look."

There was nothing Peter could buy from a slave supply store that he would find "fun." Peter knew that, too, which meant he was really trying to sell Neal on whatever was in that box. It didn’t bode well.

Neal lifted the lid and peered at the contents. "They’re butt plugs."

"They’re training plugs."

"What’s the difference?"

"No difference. They're called training plugs when they're meant for training slaves who aren’t used to penetration." He carefully enunciated _penetration_ , making each syllable like a drumbeat on Neal's nerves.

There were six black, silicone plugs. The smallest looked harmless enough. The largest made Neal's ass tighten just from looking at it. How much "training" did Peter intend to give him?

Even worse was the idea of what Peter was training him for. It wasn't hard to guess. First it was going to be the plugs, and then it'd be Peter's dick.

"The idea," Peter said, "is to get you used to it."

"How do you know I'm not used to it?"

Peter raised his eyebrows. "You've had anal sex?"

"Not exactly. But c'mon, Peter, I'm not inexperienced. I've tried stuff before."

He may have been overstating it. He'd let a woman try fingering him once, but that was a long time ago, before Kate, and he didn't remember much about it except that it was okay.

His fresher memories were of the processing center. There hadn't been any sexual training, but he remembered his intake exam all too well.

He wondered if he'd made a mistake in implying he had experience. But he didn't like Peter treating him like some sort of blushing virgin.

Peter's hand hovered over the box with the plugs. After a moment of thought, he selected one of smaller ones. It wasn't the smallest, however, and it didn't look small enough. The haze from the strangeness of the shower wore off, and Neal was starting to get nervous.

Before he could object, Peter reached over to Neal's lap and tried to undo his towel. Neal jerked away. 

"Maybe we should start with a small plug."

Peter looked down at the plug in his hand. "This _is_ small. If I used the smallest one, you wouldn't even feel it." Peter sighed, exasperated. "You just said you have experience with this."

"Yeah, with fingers. Not...objects." 

Peter sighed again. "You know, you've been so good lately, I was hoping you'd given up on being difficult."

Yeah, well, Neal had hoped that Peter's "fun" would be limited to the shower today, but clearly he was mistaken.

Peter continued. "Now, I'm sorry if you're not into this sort of stuff. I really am. But you're not calling the shots here. And I think if you give it a chance, you'll really like it."

"I doubt that."

Peter looked at the plug again. "You think the plug is too big? Is that the problem? Are you nervous?"

Neal scoffed. "I'm not nervous. It's just...last time, it was uncomfortable."

"What last time? What were you doing?"

"At the processing center. When they were examining me."

Peter narrowed his eyes. "Did they do something to hurt you?"

Neal shook his head quickly. "No. Nothing like that. I'm just saying, it's not fun to get examined assembly-line style by an overworked doctor with a speculum."

"Ah, right. Well, this is different. I'll take my time, use plenty of lube, and if it's really uncomfortable, you can tell me. That sound good to you?"

"Do I have a choice?"

Peter rubbed his arm soothingly. Slowly, he brought his hands down to Neal's lap and undid his towel.

"It won't hurt," Peter said. "Now c'mon, lie on your stomach."

Neal slowly moved into position. Peter, impatient by now, scooped him up and deposited him on his stomach. 

"You're strong...."

As if to prove the point, he lifted Neal's hips and slid the towel underneath his groin. Neal found it amusing that Peter was concerned about him coming on the bed.

He watched while Peter got a box of wipes and a bottle of lube out of the nightstand. He started with his fingers. He coated his middle and index fingers with lube and pried Neal's cheeks apart with his clean hand.

The lube was cold. Neal had to fight not to jump when he felt Peter's finger pressing against his hole.

If he thought the shower was undignified, getting fingered by Peter was much worse. He buried his face in the pillow when Peter's index finger slid inside him.

"Oh, yeah," Peter said with a breathy chuckle. "You're too tense, though. Loosen up. The plug won't hurt if you're relaxed."

Easier said than done. Neal was used to relaxing under pressure, but it was different with Peter, somehow. Peter always knew how to get to him. 

Peter worked his finger in and out of Neal's hole, and then added the second one. It was a tighter fit, but it didn't hurt. Then Peter slowed his movements, and pressed down.

"Pretty sure that's your prostate. You feel that?" 

Neal shifted on the bed. "Not much."

He did feel it, though. A little. It didn't hurt and it wasn't uncomfortable, but he wasn't sure if it felt good. He didn't want Peter to do anything that felt good.

He was satisfied when Peter gave a disappointed murmur.

"Why do you care if I feel it?" Neal asked. "Why are we doing this? If you want to screw me, no one's stopping you."

Peter kept fucking him with his fingers. "Because I figure you should get something out of it. And I like doing this. It's so much better than just fucking you." He squeezed Neal's ass with his free hand. "You're always trying to stay in control," he said, his voice low. "You need to learn who owns you, and embrace it. I want you to come with my cock up your ass."

The bluntness surprised him. Neal wondered how often he thought about that while jerking off. He wondered if Peter had thought about this before he arrested him, or if it only came later.

Peter pulled his fingers out. He used a wipe to clean the lube off of them, and then reached for the plug. He coated it with lube and positioned the silicone tip at the entrance to Neal's ass.

He pushed it in slowly. It stretched him more than Peter's fingers had, but it didn't hurt. Peter drew it and out. The plug had a soft rippled texture, and to Neal's shame, he found that the back and forth motion felt almost...good.

"See?" Peter said. "It's the perfect size. You didn't have anything to be nervous about."

He pushed the plug in further, until it was fully-seated and Neal's hole closed around the tapered base. Then Peter sat back.

"I think we'll leave that in for a bit. You can move if you want."

Neal didn't know if he should. The plug didn't hurt, but he felt full, and there was some odd but not unpleasant pressure. He moved slowly and experimentally, and froze when he felt the plug rub against his prostate.

Sitting up, he got his first good look at Peter since he'd made him lie on his stomach. Peter's dick was half hard and peeking out from the folds of the towel still around his waist.

Peter's breathing was accelerated, and he had an aroused flush to his cheeks. He fumbled with his towel and dropped it to the bed.

"Think I need that nice mouth of yours now," Peter said.

Neal braced himself for Peter to pull him over for a blowjob. But Peter didn't.

Instead, he said, "You know what rimming is?"

Neal blinked. "What?"

"You're a worldly guy. I'm sure you're familiar with rimming."

"I'm familiar with it. I was just hoping you're speaking in non sequiturs...."

Peter chuckled. "No, I mean I want your tongue on my ass while I jerk off. Why don't you kneel on the floor? Probably be easiest."

Neal just glared at him.

Neal considered himself open-minded when it came to sex. Under different circumstances, with someone else, he had no idea how he'd feel about trying this. But he knew he had no intention of putting his mouth anywhere near Peter's ass. There had to be some limits.

With a sigh, Peter took him by the arm and pulled him off the bed. He pushed Neal to his knees by the bedside, and then turned so that his back was facing Neal. He lifted one knee up on the bed and spread his legs. With one hand, he spread his buttocks. With the other, he started jerking his cock.

Neal looked at Peter's asshole with disgust. He couldn't shake the thought that this was some sort of punishment. Or perhaps Peter was trying to make a point about blowjobs not being so bad.

"You can't really expect me to do this."

"Clearly, I do. C'mon, Neal, it won't hurt you. And we just showered."

Neal didn't budge.

"Neal," Peter said after a moment, a warning edge creeping into his voice, "I'm getting impatient."

"Tough!" Neal snapped. "I'm not doing it. So what are you going to do? Paddle me?"

Peter stopped stroking his cock. "I don’t know. Maybe I should, if it'll help you learn your responsibilities."

"Fine. I don't care."

He wasn't scared of being paddled. He knew Peter wouldn't injure him, so it was just a matter of resilience. Eventually, Peter would have to give up.

Peter turned around. He stared down at Neal with his hands on his hips. It was hard to feel threatened by him when he was naked. Of course, Neal was naked, too.

Neal stared back at him, willing him to break first. Finally, Peter did.

Peter sighed and shook his head. He sat down on the bed.

"Look, I don't want to be the bad guy, here. But you have certain duties. And I was looking forward to having a good time with you." He reached over and stroked Neal's cheek. "I'm not going to paddle you. I don't—I don't want to _force_ you. I know if you want to keep being stubborn, there's only so much I can do to make you cooperate."

Neal's lips twitched. Maybe he'd get out of this, after all.

"But," Peter said with a small, calculating smile, "if you don't cooperate, I'm not going to give you a reward."

Neal's gaze shot up to Peter's eyes.

Peter chuckled. "That's what you want, isn't it? I'm not stupid—I know you've been behaving these last few weeks because you want something."

Neal weighed his options. He could be strong, and keep refusing Peter. He'd send a message. On the other hand, he imagined all his hard work going to waste. He realized now that he'd been stupid to think that Peter would give him what he wanted without making some ridiculous demands in the process. Peter could hold this over his head indefinitely. He could refuse to give him anything he wanted until he agreed to do this. Peter couldn't lose.

"Kate's letter," Neal blurted out. "If you give me her letter, I'll do it."

Peter frowned. He looked uncomfortable, and Neal couldn't figure out why.

"No. I'm sorry, but that's not on the table."

"Why?"

"I'm not discussing it right now."

"Then forget it," Neal spat.

Peter ignored his anger. "Choose something else, and we might have a deal. I was thinking of an outing next weekend."

Neal looked away and pretended not to consider it.

"Maybe a visit to a museum," Peter said, tempting him.

"Do I get to choose the museum?"

It would be just like Peter to take him to some sports museum.

"Within reason. You seemed pretty interested in that Picasso exhibit. I saw you looking at the article about it in the paper."

Neal was interested, but he hadn't thought there was any chance of the Burkes letting him go. For someone who investigated art thefts, Peter had little appreciation for the arts. And he'd considered asking Elizabeth, but she'd been busy lately, and he didn't want to abuse her kindness.

Still, he didn't want to degrade himself. He almost wished Peter _would_ paddle him, or try to force him. It'd make the decision easier somehow.

Then again, Neal had never been able to find dignity in deprivation. He wasn't Mozzie, who was willing to live in sparse safe houses and storage lockers in order to stick to some ideal.

If it meant he could get something of his old life back, did it matter what happened in the privacy of the bedroom?

"The Picasso exhibit ends after next weekend," Neal said. "What happens if you have to work and we can't go?"

"We'll go."

Neal shot him a skeptical look.

"Worse comes to worst, we'll do something else. But I promise you'll get your reward."

Neal nodded. "All right," he said quietly. "I'll do it."

Peter smiled and patted Neal on the shoulder. "Good. I knew we could come to an understanding."

He stood and resumed his previous position. Neal inched forward on his knees and decided not to draw things out any more. Leaning forward, he stuck out his tongue and tentatively touched it to Peter's hole. Peter took a sharp breath and jerked, and Neal sat back on his heels.

His heart was pounding. Leaning forward, he gave it another try. He wasn't sure what he was expecting it to be like. It wasn't all that different from any other type of oral sex. Except, he wasn’t sure exactly what he was supposed to do. He couldn't rely on previous experience to guess what Peter wanted.

He tried kissing and licking Peter's cheeks, and then licked around his hole. Peter's muscles twitched. Dipping his tongue down further, Neal discovered that Peter liked having his perineum licked.

"Oh, yeah," Peter said with a moan. "That's good. Keep doing that."

Peter was jerking his cock, and his movements grew faster. His hips rocked back and forth. Neal wanted him to finish quickly, wanted to finish this "job" and get the plug out of his ass, so he redoubled his efforts. He kissed and licked and blew warm breath against Peter's skin. He pressed his lips against Peter's ass.

Peter's muscles tightened, and he grunted. He was coming. Neal sat back on his heels and waited for him to compose himself. 

Peter grabbed a tissue from the nightstand and wiped the head of his cock. His face was flushed. Looking down at Neal, he said, "Good job. I knew you could do it."

"If I don’t get my reward...."

"Don't worry. I keep my promises." He tossed the tissue in the wastebasket. Then he lifted a bare foot and gently nudged Neal's soft dick. "You don't want to get off?"

"I'm fine."

"Hm. All right. Let's get the plug out."

Neal readily stood up and leaned over the bed. Peter eased the plug out and, after telling Neal to wait there, took it to the bathroom to clean it.

When he came back, he put the plug back in the box with the others. Then he handed the box to Neal, along with the bottle of lube.

"Here. I want you to hang onto these."

"What for?"

"What do you think? So you can use them. I thought you might want to play around with them on your own."

Neal handed them back to Peter. "I don't want them."

"Well, you're taking them." He thrust them back into Neal's hands. "You don't have to use them if you don't want to. But you might want to get some practice in. And they'd better not go missing. These were expensive."

"Fine. I'll stick them in the closet or something."

Peter smiled. "That's my boy."

At least Neal had an excuse to leave. He went upstairs and put the plugs and lube at the very back of the shelf in the closet. With any luck, maybe Peter would forget about them.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neal receives his reward. Peter becomes concerned about Neal's ability to make a good impression.

Neal waited all week for the trip to the museum. He even convinced Peter and Elizabeth to get his hair cut before the weekend.

Maybe there wasn't much sense in wanting to look his best. But he told himself that most people wouldn't even notice his collar if he dressed like a free man and played the angles right.

On the day of the outing, he got up early and wore his best shirt.

"Come on," he said while Peter was putting his jacket on. 

"Don't rush me. I'm the one paying for this little outing."

"Yeah, and I earned it. The longer we wait, the better the chance you'll get a call to go in to work."

Peter huffed. "That won't happen."

Neal raised his eyebrows.

Peter looked up at him. "Does it really happen a lot?"

"When's the last time you had an entire weekend free?"

"All right," Peter said with a sigh. "You have a point. Let's go."

On the way out, he grabbed Neal's leash. Neal started to say something, but Peter interrupted him. "If you're good, you won't need to wear it. I'm putting it in the glove compartment."

Neal still wasn't sure if this trip was worth what he'd done to earn it. But at least Peter was starting to develop better taste in rewards. Still, Neal tried not to show _too_ much enthusiasm. He wanted to appear grateful, but he didn't want Peter to think he'd found a way of controlling him.

When they got to the museum, Peter went straight to the ticket desk. They needed to pay to get into the exhibit. Neal hung back, not wanting the attractive young woman at the desk to see his collar.

"Hi," Peter said with a smile. "We wanted two tickets for the Picasso exhibit. Do you have a rate for slaves?"

The young woman glanced at Neal, and Neal glared at Peter.

"Yes, of course" she told Peter. "It's half-price for slaves."

"Excellent."

As they walked away with their tickets, Neal said, under his breath, "I wasn't aware you were going to use this as an opportunity to rub my status in my face." Neal adjusted his shirt, hoping to hide the collar better.

"Oh, come on, Neal. I am not paying full price for you just so you can pretend you're free. And quit messing with your shirt." He swatted Neal's hand away from his neck. "If you're so embarrassed to be seen in public, then maybe taking you out isn't a good reward."

"I'm not embarrassed," Neal said quickly. "I just thought it would be more comfortable for everyone if it wasn't obvious. You don't want people to think you're one of those guys takes his slave everywhere because he can't get a date."

"Thank you for your consideration, but I think I'll take my chances."

Once they got into the exhibit, however, Neal forgot most of his embarrassment. He'd thought it might be years before he set foot in a museum again.

Knowing there was no knowing when he'd get another chance, he took his time, walking slowly around the perimeter of the room in order to savor each painting.

Since it was Saturday, there were a good number of people milling around. But it was an odd time in the morning, and it wasn't as busy as it would probably be later. Nobody paid very close attention to Neal, who found himself in his element.

Before long, Peter started getting antsy. He couldn’t hide his impatience, and Neal was sure he thought they could be moving a lot faster. But to his credit, he didn't try to rush Neal.

Neal was about two-thirds of the way through the exhibit when Peter checked his phone, which he'd put on silent. Wincing, he said, "Damn it, I've got a voicemail. Neal, I have to go check this. Stay here if you want, but don't go anywhere." 

"Yeah, sure."

Peter's absence was welcome. Neal didn't have any tricks up his sleeve, but it was nice to feel like he was there by himself, if only for a short time.

Peter returned a few minutes later.

"Anything important?" Neal asked.

"Yeah. We've got a little time to finish up here, but then I need to run to the office."

Neal gave Peter an I-told-you-so look.

He could have spent all afternoon at the exhibit, but he knew Peter really couldn't stay much longer. He couldn't find it in him to begrudge Peter for that. He knew he'd had done his best.

Neal expected Peter to drop him off at home, but once they were in the car, Peter didn't head toward Brooklyn.

"You're taking me with you?" Neal said.

"It'll take too long to drop you off. Besides, I'm not going to be long."

Neal didn't mind. He'd never been inside the FBI building, and it would be interesting to meet Peter's coworkers. Besides, it could be a valuable chance to see where they stashed the keys to slave collars.

After Peter parked the car, he reached across Neal's lap and opened the glove compartment. Neal immediately knew what he was doing.

"Really, Peter? You said I wouldn't have to wear it."

"That was before I knew I was going to take you into work with me." He pulled out the leash and clipped it to Neal's collar.

Neal stepped out of the car. As he waited for Peter to take the leash, he wondered if there was a rule that slaves had to be on leashes in federal buildings. Maybe it was some sort of security thing. Then again, probably not. Most likely, Peter wanted to show off to everyone.

He imagined he must make a good trophy for Peter. 

The more Neal thought about it, the more apprehensive he became. What had Peter told everyone? What details did he share around the water cooler? 

Peter picked up the end of Neal's leash and gave it a tug. "C'mon. Let's go."

Neal knew there were protocols that slaves and masters were supposed to follow in public, but they were old-fashioned, and Peter never made any effort to observe them. But now, walking into the building, Peter subtly altered his style. He guided Neal so that he walked a couple paces behind him. Once they were inside the elevator, Peter turned to him.

"Don't speak unless you're spoken to," Peter warned him. "And be respectful. Everyone here is 'sir' or 'ma'am' to you. And don't touch anything. Don't make me regret bringing you in."

"Don't worry," Neal said. "I got it."

When they got off at the white collar division, Neal tried to take in as much as he could. People discreetly looked up when they entered, and peered at Neal out of the corners of their eyes. Peter ignored the attention they were receiving.

There weren't a lot of people in the office, but there were more than Neal expected. Apparently, if criminals worked weekends, the FBI had to, too.

A man walked up to Peter and said, "Diana's in the conference room. I think she's got the forms you need to sign in there."

"Thanks, Jones."

Jones nodded in Neal's direction. "You brought Caffrey along, huh?"

"Yeah, he was with me when I got the message."

Neal flashed a smile, but Jones didn't speak to him and Neal remembered Peter's rules.

Leading him away, Peter said, "You can wait for me in my office."

He led Neal up a small flight of stairs and into his office. Once he was alone, Neal walked behind the desk and sank down in Peter's chair. He had a good view of the bullpen from here. He noticed that a few people were still glancing in his direction, but most had already lost interest in him.

Neal turned his attention to Peter's desk. It was uncluttered, and gave him little to look at. Rolling the chair back a few inches, he tried the desk drawers. The first two contained office supplies, and the bottom one was locked. That piqued his interest.

He was looking in the top drawer for anything he could use to pick the lock when Peter suddenly walked in. He froze at the sight of Neal rummaging through the desk, and glared.

"I was looking for a pen," Neal said.

Peter walked behind the desk, swatted Neal's hands away, and closed the drawer. "Leave my desk alone."

He grabbed a folder off the desk and turned to leave. Then he stopped, turned back, and tested the handle of the bottom drawer. Satisfied that it was still locked, he left.

Knowing that Peter was on to him, he decided to abort that plan. Peter would know it was him when he discovered the drawer unlocked. With a sigh, Neal sat back.

He started to play with his leash, twisting the leather around his fingers. He unclipped it from his collar, and started to twirl it like a lasso. He misjudged the length, and the end of the leash lashed out and hit a picture of Peter and Elizabeth that sat on the desk, knocking it over with a loud clatter. Down in the bullpen, a few heads shot up. Neal quickly picked up the picture. The frame and glass looked unharmed.

Peter didn't come to investigate the noise, so Neal assumed he must be preoccupied. Taking the chance, he got up and casually paced the room with his hands in his pockets. Assured that no one was paying attention to him, he snuck out of the office.

A quick glance through the glass wall of the conference room showed him that Peter's back was turned. Neal went downstairs and headed for the water cooler he'd noticed when he was coming in.

While he sipped water from a paper cup, he looked around the office, hoping to spot a case or shelf that held collar keys. But he didn't see anything of use to him.

His presence was not going unnoticed. Several people were watching, looking unsure. Finally, after a couple minutes, Jones took the initiative and walked over.

"Hey," he said, "I thought Peter was having you wait in his office."

"Oh, it's okay." Neal held up the cup. "I got thirsty."

Jones still looked skeptical. "Yeah, well, I'm going to go check with Peter."

Neal smiled. "You don't need to bother him. I was on my way back up there, anyway."

He sauntered past Jones, cup still in hand. Once he was back in Peter's office, he was relieved to see that Jones had gone back to his own desk, apparently choosing not to get Peter involved.

Neal finished his water and crumpled the cup into a ball. He was tossing it in the air when Peter came into the doorway.

He wasn't alone. He was accompanied by another, older man.

"Neal," Peter said, "this is Special Agent Hughes. My boss."

Neal stopped tossing the cup. Smiling, he said, "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir." He stood for a moment, and then sat back down. Peter hadn't said anything about standing or kneeling.

Hughes didn't respond. He put his hands on his hips and studied Neal with narrow, critical eyes.

"And you say everything is going well?" he said to Peter. His tone was skeptical.

Peter hesitated. "Neal isn't exactly easy, but he's smart and he knows the boundaries. I can't complain."

"Hm. You know, Peter, no one would hold it against you if you had a change of heart and decided to sell him."

"Oh, Elizabeth and I are glad to have him around."

Hughes seemed to contemplate that. Nodding, he said, "Well, you're one of few people I'd trust to train him."

"I appreciate your confidence."

Neal kept a small smile on his face, but he didn't know what to make of how they were both looking at him. It reminded him of how he would look at a painting. He felt like he was being _evaluated_.

"Where do you _keep_ him?" Hughes asked, as though Neal was a pool table or widescreen TV.

"We let him have the guest room."

"You didn't mind giving it up?"

"No, we don't have guests that often, and we can always move him if we do. Besides, he spends a lot of his free time in there, and it keeps him out of our way."

Hughes murmured in agreement. Then, taking a deep breath, he said, "Melissa has been talking about getting a slave. Just for domestic work, nothing more. We're not as young as you and Elizabeth are."

"Oh, that's what Neal is," Peter said quickly. "Just a domestic."

Peter looked slightly embarrassed, and Neal was surprised. In his experience, people were open about fucking their slaves. Some guys acted like it gave them bragging rights, and others thought their pleasure slaves showed off how rich they were, since owning a slave just for sex was a luxury.

He didn't know if Peter was the bragging sort, but he'd imagined that his duties were no secret.

Maybe the people at the FBI just had different standards. Maybe he'd misjudged Peter.

"Actually," Hughes said, "Melissa was hoping she might be able to see Caffrey sometime. We don't know many people who own slaves, and she's been curious about yours. I understand if you'd rather not show him off. But I promised I'd ask."

"No, of course," Peter said. "You should come over for dinner soon. Neal is an excellent cook."

Hughes nodded. "We'd enjoy that."

After Hughes went back to work, Peter told Neal that he was ready to leave. He clipped the leash back onto Neal's collar and led him out of the office. 

Peter was silent all the way down in the elevator. He continued to ignore Neal once they were in the car.

"Everything all right?" Neal asked, after a few minutes.

"I can't believe I invited Hughes and his wife to dinner." He hit the heel of his hand against the steering wheel.

"He was the one who wanted to get together."

"Yeah, to see _you_."

"Hey," Neal said, throwing his hands up, "none of this was my idea. I'd just as rather not have your boss take an interest in me."

"I know, but he is interested, and if you're not on your best behavior when he comes over, it'll make us both look bad."

"Relax," he said, giving Peter a disarming smile, "Do you really think I'd cause trouble?"

Peter just gave him a look.

On the way home, they stopped for lunch. Neal was glad that Peter's apprehension wasn't ruining the rest of the day—going out to eat was almost as good as going to the museum. Neal pored over his menu until Peter hissed at him to decide on something.

They were sitting at an outdoor table, taking advantage of the cool but sunny late-October weather. While they waited for their food, Neal watched the people walking by. He barely cared about his collar anymore—it was worth being seen with it to be spending an afternoon in Manhattan.

A young woman walked by on the sidewalk, carrying shopping bags in both hands. If not for the glint of a collar around her neck, she would have looked like any other shopper on the streets. But Neal noticed immediately.

Most owners got their domestic slaves licenses that authorized them to move about unaccompanied. Short trips, like when Neal took Satchmo out, weren't usually a problem. But a slave shopping or walking around the city sometimes invited scrutiny from police and store owners, and a license not only confirmed that the slave was allowed out, but provided names and contact numbers for the slave's owners. 

For many people, there was no point in owning slaves if they couldn't send them on errands. Unfortunately, Peter and Elizabeth seemed perfectly content to run their own errands and keep Neal in their sight.

Neal wondered what he did to deserve such untrusting owners. Well, he supposed his reputation for eluding the authorities didn't help. And Neal had also been sold as a sex slave. Most people kept their pleasure slaves at home.

"Why did you lie to Hughes?" Neal asked, casually.

Peter looked up and blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You told him I was a domestic."

Peter took a sip of his water. "You are. You keep the house spotless. You cook for us."

"That's not why you bought me."

Peter looked around and lowered his voice. "I'm aware of that, but nobody needs to know our private business. And I'm sure as hell not going to discuss my sex life with my boss."

_Sex life_. Neal didn't know what to make of that. He knew that Peter understood as well as anyone that what went on between them was just duty and ritual. It was how things worked.

"Besides," Peter continued, "I hate it when people act like they're something special just because they have a slave. We were bringing this guy down for insider trading a while back, and every time I tried to question him, he'd make a big deal about how he didn't have time to talk because his sex slave was waiting at home. I can't stand guys like that." He shook his head.

Neal scoffed. "Yeah, and owning me isn't a feather in your bonnet?"

"All right, so maybe it is. Doesn't mean I have to make a fool of myself. And like I said, it's private. I thought you'd appreciate some discretion. No reason to make things more uncomfortable for you."

That wasn't untrue. He just wasn't expecting much discretion from Peter.

He smiled. "So what, pulling me around on a leash isn't humiliating, but telling people I'm a sex slave crosses a line?"

Peter shrugged. "In my book, yes."

Neal knew Peter wasn't deliberately cruel. He'd never imagined that Peter talked about his body or how he sucked cock just to humiliate him. But Peter was pragmatic. He treated Neal like a slave and showed little concern for what Neal thought about it. He certainly didn't care what Neal thought of the collar or the leash. The fact that Peter felt differently about the sex was almost naive. It was as though he wanted it to be intimate.

Still, Neal couldn't complain. He was more than happy to have the world see him as a domestic.

When their food arrived, he changed the subject, and spent the rest of the meal suggesting other museums Peter could take him to.

 

* * *

 

A couple days later, Neal intercepted Peter when he came home from work and handed him several sheets of paper.

Peter set his briefcase down with one hand and accepted the papers with the other. "What's all this?"

"I know you like slave training books, and you obviously worry about me being a reflection of you. So I thought I'd give you some tips."

Peter thumbed through the pages. "You printed this out off the internet, didn't you?" He looked over Neal's shoulder at Elizabeth, who was sitting at the dining room table with her laptop. "Did you let him get online?"

"I let him use my computer for a little bit," Elizabeth said without looking up. "Don't worry; I was in the room with him the whole time." 

In truth, Neal l had figured out the password to Elizabeth's laptop weeks ago. But if he got permission to use her computer, she and Peter would be less likely to suspect him of using it in secret.

Elizabeth smirked. "Besides, I think it's sweet he did this research for you."

There was a touch of sarcasm in her voice, but Neal grinned. Elizabeth had told him Peter wouldn't go for any of the suggestions, but Neal wasn't one to succumb to a defeatist attitude.

"Let's check out this 'information'," Peter said. He stepped into the light to read, and as he did so, his eyebrows rose so high, they looked like they were trying to join the hair on his head.

"Oh, yeah," he said dryly, "this is good advice: 'To help preserve your slave's value, take it to a spa every four to six months for some primping and pampering.' Where did you get this? It looks like an advertisement for a spa."

Neal bristled. "It's actually a very popular way to help maintain a valued slave's youth and attractiveness. All the stylish owners do it."

Peter looked up. "I never claimed to be stylish."

Neal gestured toward the papers in Peter's hand. "There's more. From other sites."

Peter went back to reading. After a minute, he swatted the print-out with the back of his hand and said, "This one claims that we should dress you in stylish clothes that flatter your figure."

"Your clothes are too big for me. The shirts don't have any shape. If you want me to reflect well on you, appearance matters."

"I think as long as you look clean and healthy, that's good enough. And I'm a little more concerned about your behavior."

"I don't know, Hon," Elizabeth said, looking up. She smiled mischievously at Neal. "Some salons offer special deals on Brazilian waxes for slaves."

That was certainly _not_ what Neal had had in mind when he talked about spa treatments. Thankfully, he knew it was a joke. Elizabeth and Peter showed no interest in removing his body hair.

"Tell you what," Peter said with a smile, "if you're on your best behavior when Hughes comes over next week, I'll get you one of those clay face masks and you can have your own spa day right here at home."

"Wonderful," Neal muttered.

He suspected that with Hughes visiting, Peter would be concerned about image. There was little he could do about that, aside from lying low in order to allay Peter's fears about an embarrassing dinner party. But while the matter was heavy in Peter's mind, Neal didn't seen any harm in providing him with the sort of advice he _wanted_ him to use. Even if it was a long shot.

 

* * *

 

The next evening, Neal was relaxing on his bed when Peter came in unexpectedly, after only a cursory knock on the door.

He was smiling the same way that he smiled at Satchmo last week before loading him into the car to go to the vet.

"What's going on?" Neal asked. He sat up and put the book he'd been looking at on the nightstand.

"We need to have a chat," Peter said.

"Something wrong?"

"No, nothing's wrong." He sat on the edge of the bed and gave Neal a pat on the knee. "You know, when El and I were talking about buying you, we both knew that it would be tough, and that we'd have to work with you. But the truth is, neither of us wants a slave that acts like a robot. We like that you have personality. And after all the time I spent chasing you, I guess it wouldn't be the same if you didn't pose a challenge."

Neal's lips turned up into a small smile, but he sensed Peter hadn't come up here to tell him that he _liked_ insubordination.

Peter frowned. "However, it's important that you know how to behave and obey. We've all seen happens when you don't have some discipline, and I meant it when I said I'd be correcting that."

"I thought things have been going well."

"Everything's fine. You're not in trouble. But I wouldn't be a very good master if I didn’t try to steer you right. Now, before we bought you, what sort of training did you receive, exactly?"

Neal sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He didn't want Peter to know too much about his training. If Peter thought it was too little, then he'd try to remedy that. If he thought it was adequate, then he'd just give Neal a harder time over failing to absorb it.

"It was pretty standard, I guess. They'd have us kneel, and we had to ask permission before we could do anything. We couldn't talk without permission most of the time. We had to stay still while they groped us, so we'd be ready for the auction."

"Hmm. A lot of that, we don't have to worry about most of the time. But I want to work with you on obedience a little. Why don't you go get your training plugs and the lube?"

Neal stiffened. "I thought those were supposed to be for fun."

"They are. But they're also for training. Now, go get them, please."

Neal stood up slowly. He didn't want Peter to see where he'd stashed them. He'd hoped that by putting them in the back of the closet, Peter wouldn't be too tempted to get them out. Out of sight, out of mind. But one look in Peter's eyes said there was no avoiding it. Neal went to the closet and collected the lube and the box of plugs.

"Good," Peter said. "I'm going to give you directions, and you'll follow them to be the best of your ability. Take off your clothes."

As Neal started to unbutton his shirt, he asked, "How is this going to help for when Hughes comes over?"

"It's going to help you learn to listen to my orders without a lot of trouble."

Neal reluctantly finished undressing. Then Peter ordered him back on the bed.

"Lie on your back and pull your knees up." He chuckled as Neal obeyed. "That's good. Now, I want you to put some lube on your fingers and start getting yourself reading for the plug."

Neal suppressed a shiver. Slowly, he squirted some lube on his index and middle fingers and reached between his legs.

Peter was still sitting on the bed, just a few inches from Neal's left foot. He watched intently as Neal ran his fingertips over the outside of his asshole.

"That's good," Peter said, nodding. "It's a good start. But you need to put your fingers inside. You can start with one if you want."

Neal had known this was coming. He thought he should be able to do it—he knew it wouldn't hurt, and it wasn't like he was squeamish. And it couldn't be harder than stealing a four-hundred pound statue, or that time when he'd had to sneak out of a duke's hotel room after the man had returned earlier than expected. 

But he froze. He didn't like the way Peter was staring at him, his eyes focused between his legs.

"This is fine," he said.

"Neal...."

"You just said to prepare myself for the plug."

"And now I'm telling you to finger yourself. Are you going to do it, or do I need to get the paddle?"

Neal wasn't expecting the threat, but it just made him more determined. Slowly, he pulled his hand away from his ass. He rested it on his stomach, keeping his two slippery fingers elevated so that he didn't spread lube on himself. Clenching his jaw, he looked defiantly at Peter.

Peter's nostrils flared. "I guess that answers that question."

He stood and left the room, and Neal's eyes widened. Still, it wasn't like he didn't have options. He knew he could sweet-talk Peter when he came back.

But Neal had no intention of doing that. Sitting up, he grabbed a tissue from the nightstand. He was wiping the lube off his fingers when Peter returned with the paddle.

"Up," Peter said.

Neal stood and tossed the tissue in the wastebasket. He watched while Peter took a seat on the edge of the bed.

"I don't suppose I need to tell you what to do now," Peter said.

If he'd been in the mood to draw things out, Neal might have played dumb. But he'd resigned himself to getting paddled. He decided it was best to keep his mouth shut for now. He didn't want to let Peter think he was afraid of being punished, but he also knew that it could be good to let Peter believe he had some leverage against him.

Wordlessly, he walked to Peter's side and draped himself over his lap. Peter allowed him a moment to get balanced and comfortable. Then he began the spanking.

This time, there was no "warm-up" with his hand; Peter surprised Neal with a hard slap with the paddle that covered both his cheeks. Neal stopped himself from crying out, but squirmed on Peter's lap.

He'd thought he knew what to expect. But somehow, this was worse than last time. Peter was merciless and methodical with the paddle, covering Neal's ass with hard, rapid strokes. It seemed horribly unfair—disobeying Peter's order couldn't be a worse crime than sneaking out.

But then he realized that Peter wasn't angrier. He was simply more _confident_. Now that he'd had some practice, any doubt or hesitation he'd had was long gone.

And Neal's ass was paying the price.

He bit off a whimper and rode out the rest of the spanking. Peter ignored Neal's small sounds of discomfort, and worked the paddle down to his sensitive, untouched thighs. He finished by giving him four hard slaps on the crease between his thighs and ass. Neal tensed, and didn't relax until he heard Peter set the paddle aside.

Peter spent a minute rubbing Neal's back. He didn't touch Neal's bottom, and Neal would have been almost willing to sacrifice more dignity to have Peter rub the pain away.

He expected Peter to let him up, but he didn't. Instead, he reached over and grabbed something from the nightstand, and a moment later Neal heard the ominous sound of the cap being opened on the bottle of lube.

Before Neal could protest, Peter spread his cheeks and pushed a cold, slick finger into his hole. Neal jerked and kicked his legs up.

"What are you _doing_?"

"I won't let you get the idea that being punished means you get out of doing whatever I said." With his free hand, he rubbed Neal's back again. "Relax. You know it won't hurt."

Neal's face burned. "I thought you wanted _me_ to do this."

"Well, Neal, when you give me trouble, you leave me no choice but to treat you like an uncooperative slave. And then I have to manhandle you."

With his free hand, Peter reached over for the box of plugs. Neal waited for the inevitable. But when he felt the plug being pushed inside him, his head shot up.

"It's bigger than last time."

"When you don't cooperate, you don't get to choose the plug," Peter snapped. But then his voice softened and he said, "It's only a little bigger. That first one we used was a trial run. I think this will be a better fit."

Neal was loath to admit it, but while the plug felt much larger than the first one, it went in painlessly. When it was fully-seated, he felt stretched and full, but not too uncomfortable. It was only then that Peter helped him to his feet.

Standing in front of Peter, Neal's groin was at eye level. He felt very exposed, and if he'd been more modest he would have tried to cover himself with his hands.

Peter stroked Neal's hip. "I'm going to run downstairs real quick," he said. "When I get back, I want to see that plug where I left it."

Once Peter had left the room, Neal crawled onto the bed to wait. He blinked away tears and rested his head on the cool pillow.

If he was honest with himself, the plugs weren't so bad. It was just difficult to get used to having his body handled like this. It was strange knowing Peter could do anything he wanted.

There were limits, of course, and Neal knew the law well enough. Anything that could cause scarring or injury fell under the tenuous umbrella of "slave abuse," and while there were always cruel masters out there, the government did try to ensure that slaves received a minimum standard of care, if only to protect itself from liability.

Slaves like Neal, who had less than ten years to serve, enjoyed even more protections. He didn't have to worry about getting pierced or tattooed, though he couldn't imagine the Burkes wanting to mark him like that even if they could.

But getting fucked was par for the course, and it was clear that was what Peter had planned. Maybe Moz would be outraged on his behalf if he knew, but Neal was beginning to face the reality. He was still confident of his ability to resist Peter's intentions, but he was no longer sure if he could brave the consequences. He could live with the paddle, but being confined to the house, or deprived of the small luxuries that he'd been awarded, was a different matter.

Peter returned a minute later. The mattress dipped as he sat on the bed. He looked at the sober expression on Neal's face and sighed.

"Cheer up. It wasn't so bad." He finally rubbed Neal's bottom, taking care not to disturb the plug. "You won't even feel it an hour from now."

"I still don't see what this has to do with your boss's visit. I thought I just had to cook."

"It has to do with your attitude, and the fact that you only behave when it suits you. You're not here for your own enjoyment, you know. You're here to repay your debt to society. If being a slave were easy, it wouldn't be much of a repayment." He said this matter-of-factly.

Neal raised his eyebrows. "I didn't know your sex life was for the good of society."

Peter ran his hand up Neal's back, up to his shoulders. "I spent a lot of time chasing you. And I used a lot of federal resources."

"Seriously? That's the reasoning you're going with?"

"If it helps us get on the same page, sure."

It wasn't helping. In fact, it seemed like Peter was getting desperate for ways to coax him. Still, he told himself that Peter's desperation was a good sign. It said that the resistance was getting to him.

Peter leaned over and gave Neal a peck on the cheek. Neal wasn't expecting it. Peter's lips left a wet imprint on his face, and as it faded, Neal still didn't know how to react.

"Neal," Peter said, sounding vaguely amused, "what do you think you're going to get by making things difficult? What are you expecting? That I'll sell you?"

Neal turned so that he could look at Peter. "The thought may have crossed my mind."

Peter pursed his lips. "Then you should know that's not going to happen. You'd have to do something much worse than this to make us send you away. And if you ever _did_ do anything serious—I'm talking about running away, something like that—then I'm not going to sell you to some innocent person so you can con them. You'll go straight back to the processing center, and you'll serve the rest of your sentence as government property, working in a _secure_ environment."

Neal frowned. He'd never considered that failing as Peter's slave _wouldn't_ mean a new master. But now that he considered it, there was little doubt that Peter was capable of doing just what he'd threatened.

Slaves who weren't sold at auction, or who were deemed too difficult for private ownership, stayed in the government's possession. The processing center had owned several, to help manage and train the new arrivals. Most government slaves did menial labor. They slept in dormitories, and ate bland slave meals. 

They most certainly did not visit museums.

Peter let the information sink in for a moment. Then he said, "I'm not threatening you. I'm just telling you how it'll turn out if you're not careful. I want to be a good master, but some of that depends on you."

"Understood," Neal said.

"Good," Peter said with a smile. "Now, do you think we can end this evening on a high note, and see some obedience?"

"You're the master," Neal said. "Are you asking or telling me?"

"Right, I'm the master. I want you to play with the plug a little. Pull it out and put it back in. I want you to see how easy it is."

Neal thought about resisting more, but Peter hadn't taken the paddle away yet, and Neal wasn't sure if it was wise to risk his ass any more tonight. And this was the first time Peter had so much as acknowledged the possibility of not keeping Neal. It was what Neal had been pushing for, but now he needed to pull back to avoid pushing too hard. He settled for making an exaggerated sigh as he reached back and felt for the plug.

He grasped the base and twisted and tugged. He couldn't see Peter's face, but Neal was sure he was watching with rapt attention. In fact, he suspected the real point of the "obedience training" was to get a show. Still, it was easier now that he didn't have to _see_ Peter's eyes glued to him.

The plug offered some resistance, and then pulled free with a light tug. Without hesitating, Neal spread his legs a little further and pressed the tip of the plug against his hole. As he pushed it back in, Peter let out a murmur of approval.

"That was very good," Peter said. He patted Neal on the back, and then kissed his shoulder. "Listen, it's almost time for me to go to bed. After I leave, you can take out the plug and get some rest."

When Peter stood up, Neal suddenly felt chilled. The hairs rose on his back where Peter's body heat had kept him warm.

Before leaving, Peter stopped and asked, "Would you really rather do this for a stranger?"

Neal had asked himself that a lot. Part of him still felt that submitting to a stranger would be less humiliating, but part of him was glad to be with someone he understood.

"I don't know, Peter."

Peter accepted the answer with a brief nod, and then left him alone.

 

* * *

 

"Peter didn't spank you too hard last night, did he?"

Elizabeth looked concerned. Some of it melted away when Neal shook his head, but it still lingered in her eyes.

"You've been quiet today." She played with his hair. "If you're not feeling up to it, I understand. We can always do this another time."

They were lying next to each other in the master bedroom, curled up naked under the covers. Elizabeth had finished a major event yesterday, and she was taking the day off.

"Peter doesn't care if I'm feeling up to it," Neal muttered.

"He does care," she said, clicking her tongue. "He doesn't want to _hurt_ you, Neal. Neither of us do."

Neal raised his eyebrows and plastered a good-humored smile on his face. "I don't know if he'll be able to help it. He's _big_."

Elizabeth returned his smile. "Well, don't tell Peter, but I've seen bigger." She rubbed Neal's arm. "But honestly, I don't think you'll have any trouble—the whole reason he's taking it slow is so that you'll be able to enjoy it."

"I don't think that's possible. It's not like this," he said, gesturing to the two of them and the bed.

With a small frown, she said, "Still, I know you probably think about Kate when we’re together."

Neal blinked, a little surprised at her bluntness. "Sometimes I think about her," he admitted. "But not as often as you'd think." He rested his head on Elizabeth's shoulder.

"Neal...."

"You're beautiful. And when we do this...it’s nice."

"You don’t have to pretend. I'm telling you I understand."

"I wouldn’t lie to you about this."

He was being honest, and he wasn’t sure exactly how he felt about that. He wondered sometimes if he was betraying Kate. But Elizabeth was what he'd hoped for, wasn't she? The best thing a companion slave could hope for was an attractive owner whom they enjoyed sleeping with. Surely it was better to make the most of his situation. It wasn't just about the pleasure, but the prospect of four years without any intimacy. If that made him weak, then, well, he was weak.

"I’m glad, Neal," she said with smile. "Because I like you. And Peter likes you, too, even if it doesn’t always seem like it. I know you’re not attracted to men—"

"I’m not. But it’s not just that."

"Then what is it?"

Neal pulled the covers up to his neck to stay warm. He pressed against Elizabeth. "Peter spent three years chasing me. He saw me at my best. Honestly, I have to admire his persistence."

"You respect him," Elizabeth said softly.

"As the guy who caught me, yeah. It's hard not to."

But respecting Peter as an FBI agent wasn't the same as respecting him as his master. And Neal couldn't explain to Elizabeth that he _knew_ Peter didn't mean to hurt him. She wouldn't understand why the knowledge didn't make things much easier.

Elizabeth cocked her head. "I hope you don't believe he thinks less of you. We're both proud to have an intelligent slave."

Neal didn't think that being called an intelligent slave was much of a compliment. But he knew Elizabeth was trying to flatter him. Under the covers, he snaked an arm around her naked torso, feeling the soft curves of her body. He kissed her shoulder.

He didn't want to talk anymore. And he really didn't want to talk about Peter. Neal crawled under the covers and moved between Elizabeth's spread legs. She had the sheet and quilt pulled up to her chest, and it was dark underneath except for the light that peeked in from the edges. She reached in and tangled her fingers in his hair.

He wrapped his hands around her thighs and started to gently tongue her clit. Elizabeth arched her back and sank down further into the bed. She flexed her fingers in his hair and murmured soft words of encouragement.

It hadn't taken him long to learn what she enjoyed. He didn't worry about being quick or efficient about it. If she wanted him for the afternoon, she could have him.

When she came, he could tell by the way the muscles in her thighs stiffened and she bit off a soft cry. When he emerged from under the covers, he saw that her face was flushed with arousal. Neal closed his eyes as she pulled him to her chest.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hughes comes over for dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience! I decided to add a little new material to this chapter, and my progress was a delayed by getting sick.

The next day, Peter knocked on Neal's bedroom door after coming home from work. Before Neal could respond, Peter opened the door and stuck his head in.

"Taking it easy?"

"Elizabeth said I could have some free time."

"You can have more free time after dinner. Come down to the master bedroom. I've got something for you. Oh, and bring your plugs and lube."

That didn't bode well at all. Neal had hoped that Peter was done with the plugs for a while. Reluctantly, Neal set aside the drawing he was working on, collected the plugs and lube from the closet, and followed Peter downstairs.

"What is it?" he asked as Peter led him into the master bedroom.

"Since you're still having some trouble accepting the plugs, I got you something to help with your training."

Something that resembled a large bridle was laid out on the bed. Neal surmised that the leather straps were supposed to go around his body somehow.

Peter picked it up. "This is a harness. It'll hold the plug inside your ass."

Neal raised his eyebrows. "And we need all those straps for that?"

"It's very secure. Now come on—take off your pants so we can try it out."

Neal wordlessly stripped from the waist down. Peter allowed him to keep his t-shirt on. Even though it was one of Peter's cast-offs, fitting large on Neal, it provided little modesty.

Peter guided him onto the bed on his hands and knees. Neal looked over his shoulder and watched as Peter attached a plug to the harness. At least it was a small one.

"I don't know why this is necessary," Neal said. "I've been trying to be good."

"You didn't try very hard the other day."

"But you already punished me for that."

Peter murmured and rubbed Neal's ass. "This isn't a punishment. I told you—I just think we need to work on your training. Nobody said training was fun."

Neal hung his head. He heard Peter open the bottle of lube, and he expected to feel Peter's fingers at his hole. Instead, Peter guided Neal's feet though the loops of the harness and, a moment later, Neal felt the slick tip of the plug against his ass. He jerked away.

"Shouldn't you prepare me first?" As the question left his mouth, he hated it. He was asking Peter to finger him.

Peter put a hand on his lower back to steady him. "I'm using the smallest plug, and it's lubed. You don't need preparation for this."

Neal wasn't convinced. But Peter was right—the plug went in easily.

"Great," Peter said. "Sit up so we can finish getting the harness on."

Neal slowly rose up on his knees. The plug shifted inside him. Though it was small, it was still long enough to rub against his prostate when he moved.

Peter walked around to Neal's front and lifted his cock and balls. He started to guide them through a shiny stainless steel ring attached to the leather straps.

Neal's eyes widened. "What are you doing? It won't fit through there."

"It will. Relax."

Peter had a gentle but solid grip on Neal's cock and balls, and Neal didn't dare try to break free. To his surprise, the metal ring was large enough to fit. He reached down to fiddle with it, and found that it was loose enough that he could get free from it without much trouble.

Peter swatted his hands away. "Leave it be." He tightened the straps around Neal's hips and buckled them.

The leather dug into Neal's skin. One strap went around his hips, and the other ran between his legs and pressed uncomfortably between his cheeks. That was the one that kept the plug embedded in his ass.

"Peter," he said, his voice strained, "come on—I know I haven't done anything to deserve this."

The harness was like something out of _Stylish Slave_ magazine—not the sort of thing Neal had expected to face, considering Peter's distinct lack of style.

"I told you. It's not a punishment. I thought you could use a harness, and now you have one. Come on, is it really that bad? The website said this model is comfortable enough for long-term use."

"Long-term?"

"Sure. I wouldn't leave the plug in you for more than a couple hours, but the harness can be worn all day, even under your clothes. See this ring?" He pointed to a small D-ring attached to the top of the harness. "This is how they leash slaves who like to put up a fight. It's safer to pull them by the waist than the neck."

Neal didn't like any of this.

"You're not actually going to make me wear this, are you?" He hoped Peter didn't intend to make the harness a part of the dinner party.

"We're just giving it a try. If you really don't like it, you won't have to wear it. As long as you behave, that is."

Great. Another punishment for Peter's arsenal.

"Before we take it off," Peter continued, "I want to run through some obedience exercises with you. The more you cooperate, the sooner the harness will come off."

"What kind of exercises?"

"Slave postures. Stuff I'm sure you learned about when you were trained. Stand up."

Neal rolled his eyes and climbed off the bed. He faced Peter.

Peter snapped his fingers and pointed at the floor. "Kneel."

"What?"

" _Kneel_. On the floor."

"Oh, I thought you said 'Neal.' You know, my name."

Peter sighed. "Just get down on the floor."

Neal slowly knelt down. It would've been easier if Peter hadn't insisted on using the plug. He knelt like they had taught him at the processing center: back straight, head down, hands clasped in front of him.

Peter nodded. "Good. Now relax."

Neal let his shoulders slump and lowered his ass toward the floor. Normally, he would have rested it on his heels. But with the plug inside him, he opted not to.

He awaited further instruction, but it wasn't forthcoming. Peter crossed his arms and was silent. After a minute, Neal fought the urge to squirm. He wanted to ask Peter when he intended to issue a new order, but he'd been taught that slaves weren't supposed to speak freely when they were kneeling. That was probably why Peter was making him do this.

At last, Peter said, "All right, now I want you to show me submission. I'm sure you know what to do."

Someone had once decided that kneeling wasn't enough to make slaves _truly_ feel submissive. Neal would've liked to know who it was.

He glared at Peter, and then leaned forward. He pressed his chest against the floor, folded his arms under his head, and lifted his ass in the air.

He couldn't see Peter, but heard his footsteps coming closer.

"Spread your legs more," Peter said.

Neal gritted his teeth and obeyed. This was one of the most undignified positions he'd ever been in, and he'd had to assume it all too often during his training. It was like some sort of perverse yoga for slaves.

He felt Peter's hand on his ass, and jerked. Peter squeezed Neal's ass cheek in a gentle but possessive manner.

Peter made Neal keep the position for a good minute before giving him permission to stand.

Patting Neal on the back, he said, "Good job. Now, let's get the harness off."

While Peter unbuckled the straps, Neal said, "I still don't see the point. You're not going to make me do this while Hughes is here, are you?"

"The point is to give you some practice in following orders. As for making it a habit, you know El and I aren't very formal. But when we have guests, you'll have to sit or kneel on the floor unless we tell you otherwise."

Neal didn't complain. The more agreeable he was, the sooner Peter would get over this obedience kick.

 

* * *

 

"Listen, this isn't a formal dinner, but stick around in case we need anything. Hughes and his wife want to see you, but they can look at you from a distance. It's probably best that you don't eat at the table with us. You can eat at the counter."

Peter was issuing instructions while Neal worked at the stove, trying to finish dinner before Hughes and his wife arrived. Neal bristled at being told he couldn't eat at the table, but he didn't argue. He'd been to enough dinners to know that slaves didn't sit at the table with guests.

Ordinarily, he would have taken it as a challenge. But he remembered the last spanking he'd gotten and thought better of it. Besides, at least Peter wasn't making him sit on the floor.

"And I mean it: Be on your best behavior tonight or you'll be sorry."

Elizabeth came into the kitchen, then, and said, "Oh, Hon, I think you've made your point. I'm sure Neal won't disappoint us."

She had just gotten out of the shower, and her hair was freshly blow-dried. Neal was glad that he'd had a chance to shower and dress earlier—he didn't have much time before the guests arrived. Neal hadn't been told to dress up, but he'd chosen to wear one of his best shirts anyway.

He was making chicken parmesan and seasoned potatoes. Elizabeth had helped with some of the preparations—she took too much pride in her cooking to give all the responsibility to Neal—but since she'd left to get ready, Neal had been on his own.

Neal was just finishing the potatoes when the doorbell rang. Peter and Elizabeth went together to answer it, and Neal heard them greet Hughes and his wife.

"It's great to see you, Melissa," he heard Elizabeth say. "It's been too long."

"I know," an unfamiliar female voice said. "It's been almost a year, hasn't it?"

They lingered in the living room for a few minutes, and Neal strained his ear to pick up fragments of small talk. Eventually, Peter and Elizabeth led the guests into the dining room. Neal casually looked over his shoulder as they entered. The woman who must have been Hughes' wife, Melissa, towered over everyone in her high heels. She laughed loudly at something Elizabeth said, and then took a seat at the table beside her husband. Elizabeth was carrying a bottle of wine—a gift, apparently.

"Neal," Peter said, "are those potatoes done yet?"

"They are now," he said, switching off the burner.

"Great. Why don't you greet our guests, and then get some plates for us?"

Neal turned around and flashed his most winsome smile. Nodding at Hughes, he said, "It's a pleasure to meet you again, sir." Then, nodding at Melissa, he added, "And to meet your lovely wife." 

Hughes murmured suspiciously in response, but Melissa returned Neal's smile in a way that suggested she liked friendly slaves.

Neal knew he wouldn't be allowed to have much interaction with them. Peter had made it clear that if he had his way, Neal would stay out of sight, out of mind. He filled five plates with food, delivered four of them to the table, and then retreated to the kitchen island to eat his own dinner.

"Oh, this looks wonderful," Melissa said.

"Neal deserves most of the credit," Elizabeth said, proudly. "It's his recipe. I thought I'd give him a chance to impress us."

Neal smiled, happy to receive some credit for his hard work.

He watched longingly as Elizabeth opened the bottle of wine and poured four glasses. He hoped she would put the bottle on the counter when she was finished, but she left it on the table. It would take more nerve than he was willing to show to go over there and pour himself a glass.

He hoped, at the very least, that he might pick up on some interesting conversation.

"So," Peter said, "I heard Matheson was promoted over in Violent Crimes."

"He was," Hughes said. "It was official on Monday."

"It's great news. He deserves it."

Neal poked at his food. He didn't know who Matheson was, and he didn't think he cared. When the topic finally changed, Hughes and Melissa asked Elizabeth about her work.

Neal got to hear about this sort of stuff _every_ night. He'd hoped for some interesting gossip.

"So," Melissa said, "do you guys have any plans for Thanksgiving?"

"Oh," Elizabeth said, "we're going to try to go to my sister's. It's only a couple hours away."

Hughes pointed his forked in Neal's direction. "What are you going to do with him?"

Both Peter and Elizabeth paused. They glanced at each other. Finally, Peter shrugged and said, "Take him with us, I suppose. I don't imagine he'll cause too much trouble."

This was the first Neal had heard about Thanksgiving at a sister's house.

Hughes raised his eyebrows. "You sure you want the hassle? There are places you can board slaves, you know. I'm sure they can even keep Caffrey secure."

"Oh, I don't doubt it. But I think it'd be less trouble to just take him along."

The remainder of the dinner seemed to last forever. Neal finished his food, but he knew he wasn't allowed to leave the kitchen while the others were still eating. There was nothing to but lean on the counter and wait for them to finish. They didn't seem to be in any hurry.

Neal thought back to all those slave-served dinners he'd been to, and wondered if the slaves always got this bored.

Once they finally finished their food, Elizabeth got up and went to the refrigerator to get the strawberry cheesecake she'd purchased earlier.

"I can do that," Neal said, half looking for something to do and half hoping to help himself to a piece of cheesecake.

"It's okay. I've got it."

Great. Now he was missing out on the wine and the dessert.

At last, when they'd finished dessert, they mutually put their napkins on the table. At the sound of the chair sliding back, Neal stood up straight.

They made their way toward the living room without acknowledging him. Only Elizabeth paused, looked back, and said, "If you could take care of the dishes, that'd be great."

That was just fine with Neal. It wasn't like he was in a hurry to join them.

Slowly, he collected the dishes from the table. He scraped the plates and loaded the dishwasher, taking his time in hopes that the guests would be leaving soon.

Elizabeth had put the rest of the cheesecake back in the refrigerator. Now that they weren't watching, he got it out and cut himself a generous piece. Peter would call it gluttonous, and say that desserts were a reward. But what Peter didn't see wouldn't bother him.

Neal took a bite and closed his eyes, savoring the taste. When he opened them again, he saw the bottle of wine that was still on the table.

Casually, he walked over to the table. He could see the others out of the corner of his eye, but they didn't pay him any attention. He casually picked up the bottle and walked back out of sight.

He held the bottle in the light and studied the label. It wasn't a bad wine. Not what he was used to, but not poor quality, either.

Neal missed wine. He rarely had it these days. He blamed Peter's slave training books—they all said it was a bad idea to let slaves have alcohol. Elizabeth let him help her taste wine sometimes, for events. That was nice, but not the same as having a nice glass over dinner. Peter and Elizabeth didn't even drink wine that often. They mainly indulged on what Elizabeth referred to as "date nights" and what Peter called "Neal-free evenings." On those occasions, Neal was banished to his room early.

He cocked his head to make sure he didn't hear anyone coming, and then, feeling safe, got a clean wineglass from the cupboard. He uncorked the bottle and poured himself a glass.

Suddenly, he was feeling better about Hughes. One could tell a lot about a man from his taste in wine, and Hughes' taste was simple but classic. Or perhaps his wife had picked it out.

He continued to hear laughter and conversation coming from the living room. Evidently, no one had any intention of calling it a night yet. Neal tried to mimic the sounds of work in order to keep Peter and Elizabeth from wondering what he was doing. He turned on the faucet and let the water run for a minute, and then made a show of opening and closing cupboards.

He finished his first glass of wine and poured himself a second.

Neal didn't measure how much he drank, exactly. When the dishwasher was done, he dragged out the task of drying and putting away the dishes, and he kept his glass filled and close by.

He hummed to himself while he put away the clean plates. His face felt flushed and he could taste the pleasant tartness of the wine on his tongue. 

He was idly drying the silverware when he heard approaching footsteps and the sound of Elizabeth's voice. He immediately picked up his pace, trying to look busier than he was.

Elizabeth came into the kitchen with Melissa on her heels. Elizabeth walked over to the counter and touched one of the drawer handles. "This is what I was telling you about. I changed all the hardware in here this summer. It's not much, but I think it updates the room."

Melissa walked over to get a closer look. "Oh, those are gorgeous. Very classic."

"Thank you. I thought they were perfect when I found them." She looked up at Neal, then, as though she'd just noticed him. "You're still doing the dishes? I didn't think there were that many."

"I'm almost done," Neal said.

Elizabeth's gaze focused on something behind him, and Neal realized, belatedly, that she'd noticed the wineglass. He should have though to conceal it.

"Neal," she said, softly, "have you been drinking?" She picked up the bottle of wine. Her eyes widened. "Oh my God! It's so light! How much have you had?"

"I just thought I'd give it a try."

"Well, I'm sure you knew we wouldn't approve. What did Peter tell you about being on your best behavior?"

Neal was about to plead his case when Melissa snorted. She covered her mouth and shook with silent laughter.

Elizabeth turned to her. She looked puzzled, but said, "I'm so sorry he drank your wine."

Melissa waved a hand. "No, no, don't be. _I'm_ sorry. It's just...sweet. You can't blame him for wanting to have some fun. Just look at him—he looks so harmless."

Neal grinned.

"Oh," Elizabeth said, "trust me; he looks a lot more innocent than he is."

Melissa cleared her throat and touched Elizabeth's arm. "Well, could you do me a favor and not say anything about this in front of Reese? I think he was hoping Neal would put me off the idea of buying a slave of our own."

Elizabeth lowered her voice. "Peter said you guys were considering a slave. Reese isn't crazy about it?"

Neal went back to drying silverware, glad the heat was off him for the moment.

"He doesn't like the idea of having a criminal in the house. And I don't think he trusts me to handle the training. He thinks I'm not firm enough. Remember that Shih Tzu we adopted? He blames me for how badly-behaved she is. It's not my fault that dog is demonic."

"Just give him some time to think about it. Peter was more determined to get Neal than I was, but we had plenty of time to talk about it before he was actually sentenced. And now I have no doubt we made the right choice. It's been great having Neal around."

Melissa hesitantly reached out. Her fingers barely touched Neal's arm.

"Well, he's certainly handsome. I wouldn't mind having him around."

A wary look crossed Elizabeth's face, and Neal wondered if Melissa meant to feel him up. He couldn't say he minded if she did—she was pretty, and he preferred her flattery to getting chewed out over the wine.

But before he could find out what she had in mind, Peter called out from the living room.

"Hey, Neal? Stop whatever you’re doing and come here for a minute."

Elizabeth’s eyes widened and she looked over her shoulder. "I think Neal’s a little busy, Hon. Can I get you something?"

"No, I just need Neal. Whatever he’s doing can wait."

Elizabeth turned to Neal and clicked her tongue. "They'll smell the wine on your breath."

Neal smiled. "Don’t worry—I’ve got this." Looking at Melissa he said, "And don't worry. I'll make a good impression."

He set aside the dish towel he was holding and went into the living room. Hughes was sitting on the sofa, and Peter was in the armchair across from him. As Neal approached, Peter caught his elbow and tugged. Obediently, Neal sank to his knees and ignored the discomfort of the hard floor.

"We want your opinion on something," Peter said.

Behind him, he heard Elizabeth and Melissa reenter the room. Melissa took a seat next to her husband, holding a fresh glass of wine. 

Hughes reached for a leather briefcase that was sitting at his feet. He retrieved a file folder and laid it open on the table. There was a series of documents sealed in plastic bags.

"The signature on this contract may have been forged. The other documents all have verified signatures. Peter said you’d take a look and give us your thoughts. Is the signature a forgery?"

Neal looked up at Hughes. "What’s in it for me if I tell you?"

Peter flicked him on the ear. "Neal...."

Hughes held up a hand. "No, it’s all right. If you tell me, and you’re right, there might be a reward for you. Unofficially, of course. And only if it’s okay with your owners."

He didn't elaborate any further, but Neal figured the reward had to be better than old clothes. Satisfied, he studied the documents in front of him. After only a minute, he looked up again and said, "It’s a forgery."

Hughes frowned. "Are you sure? Because our handwriting expert says otherwise."

"There's a hesitation mark on the 'M.' Your expert is wrong. And if you didn’t believe that, you wouldn’t be asking for my opinion."

" _Neal_...." Peter said again, digging his fingers into Neal’s shoulder. "What's gotten into you?"

"You’re being very blunt for a slave," Hughes said, "but you’re correct. We wouldn’t have asked you if we didn’t have our suspicions." Turning to Peter, he said, "If we can prove he’s right, it'll be a big break in the case."

"Always glad to be of use," Neal said with a smile. "I live to make my master proud."

He couldn't imagine why Peter shot him a dirty look. This was the sort of stuff they _wanted_ to hear, wasn't it? Maybe he'd tried too hard.

Clearing his throat, Peter said, "Don't you have some cleaning up to do in the kitchen?"

Before Neal could answer, Elizabeth spoke up. "Neal finished the dishes. He's had a long day—why don't we send him upstairs?"

Neal _wasn't_ done yet. He still had some silverware to dry. But evidently Elizabeth didn't care. If she and Peter wanted to finish the job themselves, that was fine by him.

Peter readily agreed with Elizabeth, and a few minutes later, Neal was in the quiet of his room. He toed off his shoes and lay flat on the bed.

It was perhaps forty-five minutes later when his bedroom door opened and Peter came in. He put his hands on his hips and looked down at Neal, who had an arm draped across his forehead. Neal stared back at Peter through heavy-lidded eyes.

They looked at each other for several seconds. Then Peter said, "I hope you have a hangover tomorrow."

"Elizabeth told you? Of course she did. Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not drunk."

Peter raised his eyebrows.

"All right, a little buzzed, maybe. Not enough for a hangover."

Peter didn't respond. Neal squirmed. He didn't like it when he couldn't read Peter. He was starting to get the feeling that he might have to sleep with a sore ass tonight.

"You're not going to punish me for a little wine, are you? I didn't disobey you. You never said I couldn't have any. And Hughes was impressed."

"He was. Thankfully, he cares more about closing that case than your attitude. No, I think you came out even tonight. So no punishment. But no home spa day, either."

"I can live with that." 

Neal turned onto his side. Peter came closer and sat on the edge of the bed.

"He didn't _want_ to be impressed, you know," Neal said. "He wanted to turn his wife off the idea of slaves."

Peter chuckled. "Oh, I know. But he appreciates intelligence, and I think we showed him some of yours." He paused and added. "It was my idea to have you look over the contract. Thought you might be able to see something our expert missed. And I thought you'd like the chance to show off."

Well, Peter certainly knew him.

"I am right, you know."

"With any luck, we'll prove it. Now get some sleep. And if you're hung over tomorrow, don't expect any sympathy."

 

* * *

 

A few days later, Peter came home from work in high spirits. Neal was at the dining room table correcting four-hundred menu cards for Elizabeth, putting little stickers that said "Beef bourguignon" over the words "Beef Bolognese"

When Peter gave him a cheerful greeting, Neal said, "Careful. Elizabeth's in a bad mood. Someone made a mistake on these menus, and now they all have to be corrected by tomorrow."

Elizabeth had expressed distaste at the thought of correcting them with labels but, well, printing new menus would cost the client hundreds of dollars and require too much time. Having a slave spend an afternoon sticking labels on the existing ones cost close to nothing.

Peter's arrival offered a welcome break. Neal's fingers needed a rest.

"Well," Peter said, " _I_ have some good news. You know that contract we had you look at? You were right." He slapped Neal's knee. "It's a fake."

"I know it is. So, you guys have a good case."

"Very good. The fresh look at the contract gave us the excuse we needed to do a little more digging. And—" he reached into his pocket "—Hughes wanted me to give you this."

He handed Neal a crumpled up bill. Neal straightened it out and frowned.

"Seriously? Hughes gave me ten dollars?"

Peter snatched the bill back. "No, he gave me ten dollars to put toward a treat for you. Neither of us are stupid enough to let you have money."

Neal huffed. "Wow, the possibilities are endless. Do I want to know how much you guys pay the handwriting expert who got it wrong?"

"Oh, come on. You made yourself look good, and you're being rewarded for it. You need to learn to be appreciative."

"I made _you_ look good. Shouldn't you be matching Hughes' reward, at least?"

Peter shrugged. "Yeah, all right, fair enough. I'll throw a ten in, too. What do you want?"

Neal thought carefully. There was no shortage of things he wanted, and he knew this was a rare chance. He wanted to take advantage of it, but he also knew that getting too ambitious with his request might risk Peter's generosity. Finally, he said, "Some art supplies would be nice. Maybe some pencils and a sketchpad."

"All right. You think you can find stuff you like for twenty dollars?"

"Well, you know, quality is important...."

"And I thought the great Neal Caffrey wouldn't need a lot of fancy tools. I'm sure some of those great masters you've forged didn't have their pick of the best art supplies."

Neal cocked his head. "Come on. I never ask you for anything."

Peter raised his eyebrows. "Oh, yeah? What do you call that list you put on the refrigerator?"

"Those are essentials. You told me to keep a list of things I need."

"Like hair gel?"

"What can I say? Elizabeth likes my hair. Before you bought me, they said maintaining my appearance was important."

"I'm sure they did. All right, thirty dollars. That's the limit. We can go shopping tomorrow."

Neal sensed Peter wouldn't go any higher than that. At least he knew now that Peter had some weakness for bargaining.

The next day, true to his promise, Peter took Neal to an art supply store and let him pick out some items. In the end, the total crept up to thirty-seven, but Peter merely shook his head and forked over the cash.

When they got home, Neal took his new art supplies upstairs. He knew he'd made the right choice—now it would be much easier to keep himself occupied when he wasn't doing chores.

He was also amazed at how good it was to have something that felt like it belonged to him. The bedroom and the too-big shirts hanging in the closet never felt like _his_. He had to remind himself that the pencils and sketchpad weren't actually his, either. It was dangerous to get attached to anything the Burkes gave him.

He had a shoebox under his bed where he kept all the worthless things he snatched from around the house: fliers from Elizabeth's events, paperclips and rubber bands from the junk drawer, newspaper clippings. Neal prided himself on his tastes, but these days, it was enough to _have_ something. Anything.

Still, he didn't peg Peter and Elizabeth as the type to take back presents on a whim. He felt mostly safe in enjoying his new art supplies. It was a badly-needed treat.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illness changes Neal's Thanksgiving plans.

One morning, a little more than a week before Thanksgiving, Neal woke up to an unusually still house. He remembered waking earlier when Peter's alarm went off, but he'd dozed back off and now it was nearly ten. 

He expected to see Elizabeth when he went downstairs. She was usually up and working on her laptop. But the whole downstairs was quiet, and the lights were off.

Neal looked for an indication that she might have gone out, even though she usually woke him if she left the house while he was still asleep. But he found her purse on the kitchen counter.

Growing concerned, he went back upstairs and paused at the door to the master bedroom. It was closed, and there was no sound from inside. After debating a moment, he knocked. When he didn't receive an immediate answer, he opened the door and peeked inside.

Elizabeth was in bed, bundled up under the covers. She lifted her head when he stepped into the room.

"Hey, Neal...." she said, her voice coarse and groggy.

"Sorry to bother you. I was surprised you weren't up. Everything okay?"

She pushed a lock of hair out of her face. "No, I feel horrible. I've got something....I have a fever and I'm freezing."

"Is there anything I can get for you? Soup?"

She swallowed and shook her head. "Not right now, thanks. My stomach was bothering me. If you could walk Satchmo later, that'd be great. And could you call Peter and ask him to bring home something for dinner? I don't want you to go through the trouble of cooking tonight. I don't think I'll be eating much."

"No problem. I'll let you rest. Let me know if you need anything."

She managed a weak smile. "Thanks."

When he got downstairs, the first thing he did was call Peter.

"Oh, she's still not doing good?" Peter said when Neal told him what was going on. "That's a shame. She said she wasn't feeling well, but I was hoping she might be better with a few more hours of sleep."

"She said to bring home some dinner for you and me. I don't think she feels like eating anything."

"All right. I'll pick up a pizza on the way home. And Neal? Look after her. Give her anything she needs."

Neal made sure to check on Elizabeth throughout the afternoon, just in case she needed him. She mostly slept, however, and Neal did his best not to bother her or make a lot of noise. He walked softly whenever he came upstairs and kept the TV on low when he was in the living room.

Later, he bundled up and took Satchmo out for a walk. It would have been a good afternoon to see Mozzie. He doubted Elizabeth would have any idea how long he was gone, and he hadn't seen Moz since he helped him make the arrangements to see Kate. But when he got to the park, there was no sign of him. In fact, there was hardly anyone at the park. The wind was cold and biting, and even Satchmo wasn't very keen to be outdoors. Neal didn't stay long before he circled back to the house. Satchmo bounded inside, and Neal shared his enthusiasm for the warm house. He rubbed his hands to bring the feeling back into his fingers.

That evening, Peter brought home a large pizza. "Meat Lover's Special!" he declared with a smile. "It's got ham, sausage, and pepperoni. El doesn't like it, but trust me; you're in for a treat."

Neal looked at the pizza suspiciously. "Yeah, I'm not usually a sausage fan...."

Still, Neal was hungry. He couldn't be that picky. He ignored Peter's smug smile when he grabbed a second piece.

Halfway through dinner, Elizabeth came downstairs, still in her pajamas. Her hair was pulled back in a rough ponytail. Making a sound of disgust, she said, "That pizza looks so unhealthy...."

"Neal likes it," Peter said, his mouth full of pizza. He swallowed and said, "How are you feeling?"

Elizabeth shook her head and sniffled. "Not good. I need to eat _something_ , though. We have a can of chicken soup. I thought I'd heat that up."

"I'll take care of it," Neal said.

She smiled gratefully and sat down at the dinner table. Neal found the soup in the cupboard and, a few minutes later, set a hot bowl in front of her.

Elizabeth stayed downstairs for a couple hours before she went back to bed. Neal spent the rest of the evening watching TV with Peter.

At eleven, Peter turned the TV off and went upstairs to get ready for bed. While Peter was in the bathroom, Neal got into his pajamas and then waited outside the bathroom door for his turn.

After brushing his teeth and washing his face, Neal went up to his room. When he reached the doorway, he froze.

Peter was sitting on his bed, setting his alarm clock.

"What are you doing?"

Peter looked up. "I'm sleeping in here with you tonight."

Neal walked in and looked around. The closet door was open, and his clothes had been pushed to the side to make room for one of Peter's suits and a shirt. Peter's shoes were on the floor by the closet. Some socks and underwear were folded neatly on top of the dresser.

"And you're doing this because...?"

"Because El's sick. Why do you think?"

"What? You don't want to be in the same room with her? I'm sure that makes her feel great."

Peter rolled his eyes. "For your information, this was her idea. She said she doesn't want me to catch what she has. I told her I never get sick, but she insists. Honestly, she just likes being on her own when she's sick. You should see the set-up she has down there. Between the Kleenex box and the pile of magazines she's got, there's no room for me. And I don't think she wants my alarm waking her at six AM. No, I don't want to bother her. I even got all my clothes together so I won't disturb her too much." He gestured proudly at the suit hanging in the closet.

"So you decided to sleep in my room."

"Which, don't forget, is our guest room."

Neal slowly approached the bed. There had to be a way to avoid this, but it wasn't coming to him right now.

"I don't know, Peter. It's not that I don't want to share. But I toss in my sleep, and I don't know if the bed is big enough."

"I'm not worried." He finished setting the alarm and put it on the nightstand. "Look, if you have a problem sharing a bed with me, my sleeping bag is in the hall closet. You're free to use it."

Neal was not going to get kicked out of his bedroom just because Elizabeth was sick. How was that fair, after he'd made her chicken soup? He sat down on the free side of the bed. "This will be fine," he said shortly. "But you're actually on the side I like to sleep on, so if you could just..."

"This is the side I sleep on in _my_ bed. I think you can adjust for a night or two."

 _Two_? Peter was planning on doing this tomorrow, as well?

Peter lay down—on Neal's side of the bed, with Neal's favorite pillow—and Neal grudgingly lay down beside him. Peter had brought a book in the room, and he propped the pillows up behind his back so he could read.

"I just hope El's better in time for Thanksgiving," Peter said. "It'd be a shame if she wasn't well enough to go to her sister's."

"She's looking forward to it?" Neal asked.

"Yeah, she likes seeing her sister. And if we don't go, her parents might want to come here afterward to visit."

Peter opened his book to read, and Neal turned to face the wall. He tried to pull the covers around him, but his knees and chest were still cold.

"Hey," he said, "you mind? You're hogging the covers."

"Move closer and there'll be enough for both of us."

Neal didn't respond. He wasn't going to give Peter the satisfaction of closing the gap between them. He could deal with being cold.

He closed his eyes and steeped in his annoyance. He wasn't ready to sleep just yet, and he was used to having some time alone at night. He'd hoped to do some drawing, and he was in the mood to jerk off. He couldn't do _that_ now.

And he really _was_ cold. After a few minutes, he opened his eyes and turned onto his back. Ever so slowly, he inched closer to Peter, just enough so that the quilt covered his body. He saw the corner of Peter's mouth twitch with satisfaction.

Peter snaked his arm behind Neal's shoulders and pulled him even closer.

"Warm enough now?" he asked.

"I'm fine," Neal said. Peter's body was very warm.

He started to read over Peter's shoulder. The book seemed to be a biography. Neal could only see one side of the book, so he couldn't exactly read along. But he managed to get the gist of it, and it was better than staring at the ceiling.

He was in the middle of a sentence when Peter suddenly closed the book and put it aside.

Yawning, he said, "I'm beat. Time to get some sleep."

Neal wasn't ready to sleep yet, but Peter switched off the lamp. The covers rustled as Peter rearranged the pillows and got comfortable. He lay on his side and, before Neal could object, draped an arm across Neal's stomach.

Pinned to the bed, Neal didn't think he'd get to sleep for ages. He spent some time peering into the dark room, watching as his eyes adjusted enough to make out the shape of the dresser.

At some point, he dozed off. When Peter's alarm woke him up, he felt like he'd just gone to sleep.

Peter disentangled himself from Neal and turned it off. He groggily got up and made his way out into the hall, and Neal stretched out in the bed, occupying the warm space Peter had just left.

He was still awake when Peter returned to the bedroom, fresh out of the shower. He was wearing only his slippers and a towel wrapped around his waist. He carried his pajamas over his arm, and set them at the foot of the bed. Then he sat on the bed and opened his towel.

For a long moment, Neal just stared. Peter returned the gaze and started to idly stroke his dick.

"Well?" Peter finally said. "You know what I want."

With a sigh, Neal got out from under the covers. He'd just discovered a new perk of sharing a room with Peter. He got out of bed, shivering at the cold when his feet hit the floor. Wordlessly, he sank to his knees between Peter's legs.

"I thought we could work on that new trick I'm teaching you."

Peter had recently decided that it wasn't enough merely to have Neal suck his cock. No, he wanted Neal to deep-throat him. He was making Neal work on overcoming his gag reflex.

In truth, Neal didn't have much of a gag reflex to begin with. But Peter didn't have to know that.

At least this morning, Peter had to get ready for work. There wasn't much time for training. Neal took a deep breath and took the tip of Peter's cock into his mouth. He spent a minute just licking the head. Then he relaxed his jaw and throat and slowly slid more and more of it into his mouth. Peter shuddered with pleasure—Neal knew he liked the feeling of his cock sliding against Neal's tongue.

When Neal stopped, his head was low enough that Peter's pubic hair tickled his face. He hummed around Peter's cock as he tried to get used to the fullness of his mouth, and Peter's breath hitched.

Neal's lungs started to burn, and he came up for breath. As he did so, his throat tickled and he sat back, clearing his throat and letting out a weak cough.

Peter patted him on the shoulder. With a breathless laugh he said, "You're actually getting good at this. That's enough for now—let's finish."

His plan to give terrible blowjobs had obviously failed. Neal had known it was coming to this, though. Peter was wildly persistent, and Neal could only take his quiet rebellion so far. Sometimes he considered drawing out his blowjobs more, so that Peter couldn't get any relief. But sucking Peter's cock for an indefinite amount of time, until Peter gave up in frustration, was just as unappealing for Neal as it would be for Peter.

If Peter was this determined, maybe it was better to give him what he wanted. Really, from Neal's perspective, it was easier to be efficient and perfunctory. As long as no one outside the house knew about it, he found it less humiliating than tiresome.

Neal made short work of making Peter come. It was his gentle licking of the underside of the head that did it. Worked like a charm.

He sat back on his heels. Peter's face was flushed and his eyes were screwed shut. Opening them, he caught his breath and looked down at his dick. There was still a drop of come on the head.

Frowning, he said, "Can I get dressed like this?"

With a sigh, Neal leaned forward and licked it clean. It was one thing to have to swallow—it was another thing entirely to have to lick Peter clean. But it was one of Peter's ways of enjoying his dominance.

Peter mussed Neal's hair. "That's a good boy." He looked over at the clock. "I've gotta get ready. We'll have a lot more fun this weekend."

Neal didn't like the sound of that at all.

 

* * *

 

Peter spent one more night in Neal's room until Elizabeth felt well enough for him to move back in with her.

She was still sick, but the worst had passed. After a few days, she was comfortably working from home while recovering from a cough and stuffy nose.

On Friday, she came downstairs while Neal was sitting on the sofa, his head in his hands. He was supposed to be dusting.

"Neal? Everything all right?"

Neal cleared his throat and looked up. "I'm fine. Just a headache. I think it's allergies—I'm kinda congested."

Frowning, Elizabeth walked over and placed a hand on his head. "Oh, Neal, you have a fever. You must've caught what I had."

"I don't think it's that bad...."

"Yeah, mine wasn't that bad at first, either." She pointed at the stairs. "All right, up to bed."

Neal slowly stood up. His muscles ached. That couldn't be a good sign. "Peter will be disappointed," he muttered.

"Well, Peter will just have to wait until you're feeling better. I mean it, go!"

Neal trudged upstairs and got into his pajamas. It did feel good to lie down. He didn't think he could keep his head up much longer. Still, he didn't think Elizabeth's concern was completely necessary. He just needed a break. But if she wanted to send him to bed to take it easy for the rest of the day, who was he to complain?

He quickly fell asleep. The next thing he knew, Peter was hovering over him and shaking his shoulder.

"C'mon, Neal. Open up."

Peter was waving something near his mouth. Neal buried his head in the pillow and swatted at Peter.

"No, I'm off-duty...." he mumbled.

Peter sighed, exasperated.

"Are you even _awake_?"

Neal opened his eyes with a groan. "I am now. Why are you home?"

"What do you mean, why am I home? It's almost seven. You've been sleeping all day."

Neal blinked at the alarm clock on the nightstand. He had no idea so much time had passed. Normally, he would have regretted the wasted afternoon, but right now all he knew was that his head was killing him and he was freezing.

"Come on," Peter said. "You're burning up. I want to take your temperature."

Squinting, Neal saw that Peter had a thermometer. He slowly sat up, holding the covers up to his shoulders. He opened his mouth and Peter slid the thermometer under his tongue.

"That's a good boy," Peter said. "Keep that in until it beeps."

Neal closed his eyes. He immediately started to doze off again, only to jerk awake when the thermometer beeped a minute later. Peter removed it from his mouth.

"A hundred and one....Yep, looks like you caught whatever El had."

Neal buried himself under the covers, letting only the top of his head peek out. Peter rubbed Neal's hip under the blankets.

"Just take it easy," Peter said. "Look on the bright side—it's not so bad being sick when you're a slave. If _I_ got sick, it'd be a mess with work."

Neal glared at him. His head hurt too much to argue. Peter excused himself and returned a minute later with a cup of water and some Tylenol, which Neal eagerly swallowed.

Realizing he had Peter's sympathy, he said, "I'm sorry about this. I hate to be an inconvenience."

He knew Peter had been planning to use the plugs on him tonight. Peter pursed his lips, barely containing his disappointment. But he just sighed and shook his head.

"It's not your fault. I'll admit, I thought you might be faking when El told me you weren't feeling well. But I don't think even you could fake this fever. Just get some rest."

Neal nodded. No one with half a heart could be mad at a slave for getting sick.

When he was alone again, he shuddered and let himself indulge in some self-pity.

Elizabeth checked on him before she went to bed. She felt his forehead and gave him a sheepish smile.

Neal spent the next day in bed, cocooned under the covers and feeling thoroughly sorry for himself. At least Elizabeth made sure he was well-cared for. Neal couldn't blame her for giving him the flu, but he appreciated the extra blanket and soup she brought him.

When Thanksgiving rolled around, Neal's fever had dropped and his chills were gone, but traveling was still out of the question.

Early on Thanksgiving morning, Neal stood in the kitchen while Peter and Elizabeth got ready to leave. He was wearing an old robe of Peter’s over his pajamas.

"And if you can’t reach us on our cells," Peter said, "I’ve put El’s sister’s number on the refrigerator."

Neal crossed his arms. "You realize I’m an adult, right? I have been on my own before."

"I’m covering all my bases. And just because you’re sick, don’t think I won’t be checking your tracking data. If you’re not well enough to come with us, you’re not well enough to leave the house. So unless the house is on fire, you have no excuse."

"Don’t worry about walking Satch," Elizabeth said. "We should be home by seven. Just let him out back when he needs to go out."

Her voice was still hoarse, but she had the color back in her face and she moved with more energy than she’d had in days. Neal wished he felt that good. Even without the fever, he was bogged down by exhaustion and a headache. He coughed into his fist.

He couldn’t believe Peter _still_ didn’t trust him. A couple days ago, he’d walked into the living room while Peter was on his cell, and overheard the tail end of a conversation.

"No," Peter had said, "I understand you’re not equipped to offer medical care, but he’s not _that_ sick." He’d sighed. "Yeah, no, I understand. Thanks anyway."

When Peter had hung up, Neal approached cautiously and said, "What was that about?"

"That was a slave kennel. They said they won’t board sick slaves."

Neal put on his best wounded look. "A slave kennel? Seriously? It’s not my fault I’m too sick to go to Thanksgiving."

Peter had rolled his eyes. "Don't look at me like that. No one’s _blaming_ you. I’m just not sure I want you here unattended while El and I are a couple hours away."

In the end, though, Neal had prevailed. Or rather, Peter hadn’t been able to find a reputable slave kennel that would take him when he might be contagious. Finally, Elizabeth had pointed out that it was no good having a slave they couldn’t leave home alone occasionally. Besides, he could take care of Satchmo.

Neal had no intention of betraying their trust, anyway. Not out of loyalty, but because he was too sick to feel like doing much.

"Oh," Elizabeth said, "and Neal, I hate to see have you spend your Thanksgiving like this, so I rented you that movie you wanted to see on cable. That should keep you busy for a couple hours."

He smiled at her. "Thanks, Elizabeth."

She kissed him on the cheek. "Feel better, all right? Take it easy."

Peter was filling some water bottles in the sink. Looking over his shoulder at Elizabeth, he said, "You, too, Hon. Try to get some sleep in the car."

"Oh, I will," she said. "I’ll be so glad when I’m over this...."

Neal followed them out and stood on the front porch until they drove away. Once the car turned the corner, he went back inside. He went up to his room to collect his pencils and sketch pad, but when he brought them downstairs, he set them aside and lay on the sofa.

Satchmo came over and sniffed his hand. Neal reached down and lazily scratched behind his ears.

It was a shame he couldn’t take better advantage of having the house to himself. Who knew when he’d have this much time again? His throat tickled and he tried to settle it with a soft cough, but it turned into one of the uncontrollable fits that he’d been plagued with for two days now. Satchmo got up and trotted off, and Neal’s throat was raw by the time he managed to stop coughing. Neal groaned and draped an arm over his head.

He decided to watch the movie Elizabeth had rented for him. Being sick did have a few benefits, and he knew he'd miss the special treatment he was getting.

By the time the movie ended, Neal’s eyes were heavy. He folded his arms against his chest and shifted to get comfortable, and after a few minutes he dozed off.

He woke up sometime later to the sharp, startling sound of a knock on the front door. He sat up with a grunt. His neck was stiff from being bent against the arm of the sofa, and he rubbed it as he walked to the door.

He had no idea who would be at the door on Thanksgiving. Anyone who knew Peter and Elizabeth would surely know they’d gone away for the afternoon. The dreadful idea occurred to him that Peter might have arranged for someone to come over and check up on him.

Neal peeked out the window beside the door, and his eyes widened in surprise. He immediately opened the door.

"Moz! What are you doing here?"

Mozzie held up his hands. "Neal! No names! Not until I sweep this place for recording devices!"

"There are no recording devices. Just get in here before the neighbors see you."

Mozzie stepped inside and Neal closed the door behind him. 

"How can you be so sure?" Mozzie said. "Installing a hidden camera is just something a suit would do."

"If the Burkes were using a nanny cam on me, I wouldn’t get away with half as much as I do. Now, are you going to tell me what you’re doing here?"

Mozzie set down the briefcase he was carrying—the one that undoubtedly carried his equipment for detecting bugs and cameras. He took off his earmuffs and folded them into his coat pocket. "I’ve been staking this place out. I banked on the possibility that your overlords would be gone for a while."

"You were right. They’re visiting Elizabeth’s sister upstate. They shouldn’t be back until this evening."

Mozzie backed up and took a good look at Neal.

"Wow, you look terrible. What have they done to you?"

Neal rolled his eyes. "They haven’t done anything. Unless you count giving me the flu. I was supposed to go with them, but I got sick."

"Oh, then you lucked out."

Neal rubbed the back of his neck. "I don’t know, maybe. I didn't mind the idea of going, but now that you’re here, I'm glad I didn't. I didn't know when I’d see you again."

"You’re telling me. You just stopped showing up at the park. I thought they had you in chains in their basement."

"Nothing that dramatic. But I don’t get out that way much anymore. They’re monitoring me a lot more closely."

"And does that have anything to do with your meeting with Kate?"

Neal frowned.

"C’mon, man!" Mozzie said. "I’ve been dying of suspense! What happened?"

"She didn’t show."

"What do you mean?"

"She didn’t show, and I got caught trying to meet her, okay? She left me a note but didn’t stick around."

Mozzie paused, appearing to take that in. "Well, what did the note say?"

Neal shook his head. "I wish I knew. They confiscated it before I could read it."

His head was starting to hurt again. He sat down on the sofa and turned off the TV.

"Well, have you looked—"

"I've searched, Moz. I think Peter might have taken it to the office." He paused to cough. "So, you didn't know anything? Kate didn't talk to you?"

"I haven't talked to her since I set up the meeting. I tried to contact her to find out what had happened to you, but no luck."

"Why couldn't you reach her?"

"How am I supposed to know? It's not exactly a surprise, is it? It took you months to find her before you got caught. We know she's capable of disappearing if she wants to."

Neal wanted to point out how that was different. That was before he'd been enslaved. They may not have had a chance to work through their issues, but there would be time for that. Kate wouldn't leave him now. But before he could say that, Mozzie continued.

"So...you were caught. Was the Suit angry?"

Neal shrugged. "It could've been worse."

He wasn't going to go into details. He certainly wasn't going to tell Mozzie about Peter's method of discipline.

Mozzie studied him with an uncomfortably serious look on his face. "You know, if things do get bad, say the word and I'll get you out of here." He touched his own neck. "With or without the collar."

Neal managed a small smile. "Thanks. I've still got the passport and money you gave me. I'm keeping them safe, until the time is right."

Just the other day, he'd moved the bag to a new hiding place he'd found in the laundry room. He didn't want to keep it with the Christmas decorations as it got closer to December.

"So, escape is still a plan?"

"It never hasn't been a plan," Neal said firmly. He wasn't sure if he was trying to convince Mozzie or himself.

"Because there _are_ other options we could consider. If the Suit and his wife could be persuaded to _sell_ you, and we made sure the right buyer came along...."

"Forget it. They're not willing to sell. Peter acts like it's his duty to own me."

"Maybe you just haven't been...bad enough."

Neal raised his eyebrows. "If I'm bad enough for them to sell me, they'll smell a con from a mile away. Besides, Peter swore he'd sell me to the government before he'd let a private buyer take me. No, it won't work."

"Okay," Mozzie said, throwing up his hands in defeat. He sat in a chair across from Neal. He sat down lightly, as though he didn't want to leave any signs of his presence in the house. Not even an indented chair cushion. 

For a minute, there was no sound in the room except for Neal's intermittent coughing. Mozzie was still studying Neal like he had x-ray vision, and looked like he was on the verge of saying something.

"What?" Neal asked. It came out more irritably than he'd intended, and he almost apologized. He didn't want Mozzie to think his company was unwelcome. It wasn't his fault that Neal was sick an uncomfortable.

Mozzie just ignored Neal's impatience. "You don't need to...pretend about what's going on here, you know. I am aware that you were sold for what the government euphemistically refers to as 'companionship.' And this place is spotless even though you've been sick for what, probably a few days now? You obviously aren't here because they're bad housekeepers. It doesn't exactly take a genius to figure it out."

"What do you want me to say? That they make me have sex with them?"

"I just want to know how you're holding up. I mean, is it weird? Do they make you dress like a French maid?"

Neal wrinkled his nose. "What? No. Where would you even get that idea?"

"Your master's idea of variety is deciding which Brooks Brothers suit to put on in morning. I thought his dull exterior might mask hidden depravity."

Neal raised his eyebrows. "And maid costumes were the most depraved thing you could think of?"

"I can't give him _too_ much credit for imagination. He _is_ a suit."

"Well," Neal said, his voice icy, "I'm sorry my slavery isn't exciting enough for you."

"That's not what I meant," Mozzie said. "I just don't get the secrecy. Did you think I'd look down on you?"

"Of course not," Neal said, even though he wasn't that confident. "I just didn't want you to worry. And the fewer people who know about all this, the better."

Mozzie leaned forward, putting his hands on his knees. "Any one of us could find ourselves in your position. We conmen need to stick together. Besides, it could be worse. Pleasure slaves have a certain...prestige. Remember Benjy Velasquez, who made the counterfeit diamonds? He did two years, and his master bought him suits. _Bespoke_."

But Mozzie _wasn't_ in his position. And if Neal were petty, he might point out that Mozzie was unlikely to ever find himself in this particular situation. The inspectors who classed slaves prior to auction were notoriously vain, and most companion slaves were under forty and fit an aesthetic that Neal happened to meet. 

Half the time, Neal didn't know how to feel about his situation. Mozzie was right—there was some prestige in it. At the very least, it meant that the people at the processing center thought he had a nice body. But the idea of exchanging sex for luxuries made him uncomfortable. Sure, he knew that it was just what most pleasure slaves did. And if he was honest, he'd done it already with Peter and Elizabeth. 

Coughing, he said, "I don't think the Burkes fit into that demographic of slave owners." Another thought occurred to him. Staring at the floor, he said, "And that's not all there is to it. Adler gave his slaves everything they could want, and they hated him. They were about the only people who were _happy_ when he disappeared. And I—I was naive. I'd never known anyone who owned slaves before, and I didn't realize how much you can tell about someone from what their slaves think of them."

Mozzie nodded solemnly.

"I mean," Neal continued, "I'm not saying I like it here. But it's not terrible. They're not as nice as they think they are, but I think they try. I'm not stupid—I know how important that is." He looked at his hand and picked at his fingernails.

"That sounds like the beginnings of Stockholm Syndrome."

Before Neal could argue, the phone rang. Neal got up and held up a hand, motioning, needlessly, for Mozzie to be quiet. Getting up so quickly made his head hurt, but he ignored it and walked over the phone.

The caller ID showed Peter's cell phone number.

Neal picked up the phone and cleared his throat. "Hey, Peter."

"Neal. How's it going?"

He glanced at Mozzie, who was listening intently. "Everything's fine...are you at Elizabeth's sister's house?"

"Oh, yeah, we got here a bit ago."

"Let me guess: you can't check my collar because you have a bad Wi-Fi connection, so you're calling to check up on me."

Peter chuckled. "Nice try, but no. Your data shows up just fine. I just wanted to check in. See how you're doing."

"Uh-huh."

"All right," Peter said with a resigned sigh. "I needed a break from El's dad. Every year this happens—El ends up helping her sister with dinner, and I get stuck with her parents. Next year, you're coming with us, sick or not."

"Well, I'm glad to hear I've been missed."

"So, how are you feeling?"

"My head hurts and I can't stop coughing. But I'm better than yesterday."

"Good...good," he said cheerfully. "You'll be back to work in no time."

Peter dragged out the conversation for three more agonizing minutes, all while Mozzie made increasingly frustrated and incredulous gestures. Peter was obviously serious about needing a break from Elizabeth's family.

Neal finally put on a coughing fit in order to get Peter off the phone. The ruse worked a little too well, and as he put the cordless phone back on the base, he found he couldn't stop coughing.

Mozzie waited until he stopped, and then said, "Seriously? You can't even get a break from him when he's out of town?"

Neal sniffled and wiped his eyes. He felt another tickle in this throat, but it passed. "At least he didn't stick me in a slave kennel."

Mozzie looked horrified. He stood up and started rambling about inhumane treatment. Neal half-listened as he closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall. He felt warm, like he had a touch of a fever again.

When Mozzie noticed, he stopped mid-rant. "You look tired. You want me to go?"

Neal opened his eyes. "No, I just need to sit down. Stay a while? They won't be home for hours."

He hoped Mozzie would say yes. He didn't know when there'd be another chance for him to visit.

"In that case, don't mind if I do."

He sat back down in the chair he'd vacated. This time, he leaned back, making himself at home. Neal lay on the sofa and himself in the afghan.

"All right," Neal said. "So, tell me what I've been missing."

"Things have been quiet lately. Oh, but I did get ahold of a very nice sixteenth-century manuscript...."

Neal closed his eyes and listened.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A secret is revealed, and Neal pays the price.

Everything went smoothly for a couple weeks. If the Burkes suspected anything about Neal having a visitor on Thanksgiving, they didn’t show it. Neal slowly recovered from his illness until finally, his cough was gone and he had his old energy back.

Of course, being well meant a return to the old routine, and that Peter would eventually expect his services again.

Neal was in his bedroom one evening, idly sketching, when Elizabeth called up to him from the foot of the stairs.

"Neal? Could you come down, please? We need to talk to you."

He heard the hard edge in her voice, and his mind started to race. Most likely, it had nothing to do with him. He’d done nothing to upset them. But of course, anything that affected them would affect him, too.

Elizabeth was already gone when he came out of his room. He walked down to the first floor and followed the soft sound of their voices to the dining room.

They stopped talking when he appeared. Peter had his hands on his hips, and looked at Neal with an icy expression. Neal was about to ask what was going on when he saw what was on the table.

Peter gestured to the items laid out. "We just found this in the laundry room. Would you care to explain?"

His passport lay open beside the neat wads of cash. The paper bag they’d been in lay crumpled a few inches away. Neal looked up at Peter and Elizabeth, his eyes wide.

"It isn’t what it looks like."

"It looks like a fake passport and a whole lot of cash," Peter said. His nostrils flared. He jabbed his finger at the passport. "Legally, this could be seen as an escape attempt."

"It’s not," Neal said, shaking his head. "I swear, I wasn’t going to escape."

"Oh, come on, Neal—"

"I’m not lying!"

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose and screwed his eyes shut.

Elizabeth turned to Neal. "Then tell us what you _were_ going to do."

At least she seemed willing to listen to him. Looking at her, he said, "I just wanted to know that I _could_. I wanted options."

They probably thought he was lying, and Neal almost wanted to believe it _was_ a lie. The money, the passport—they'd made escape feel like more than just a daydream.

Peter took a deep breath and said, "Do you think the slave authorities would believe that? Or care? This is a _crime_. At the very least, you could be charged with conspiracy to impersonate a free person, or illegal possession of currency. But with your record, they’ll give you attempted escape. Either way, you’re looking at time added to your sentence. Maybe a lot of time."

"I understand. But I was careful. I’ve never even taken that stuff out of the house."

"You don’t get it," Peter said. "Legally, El and I are supposed to report anything like this to the authorities. If we did that, you’d be in big trouble."

"But we’re not," Elizabeth said, quickly. Neal looked at her for support, but her unwavering frown showed little sympathy. "We knew you might try something like this, and we both believe you deserve more of a chance. But we’re breaking the law by not reporting you. I hope you appreciate that."

Neal nodded somberly. He’d known it would be disastrous if they discovered his stash, but the thought of losing even more of his freedom hit him hard. His gut told him it'd been stupid to accept the money and passport in the first place. But another part of him, fuming at the sight of his escape route exposed on the dining room table, wished he actually had planned an escape. If he'd known they would find his stash, would he have tried to run while he had the chance?

"This is your second chance," Peter said. "Don't count on a third."

"I know," Neal said, nodding. "I understand that. I do. But you can’t ask me to give everything up. I can do what you want. I can be a good slave. But Peter, I can’t give up all my options."

Peter and Elizabeth exchanged a look. Peter’s expression softened. It was barely perceptible, but Neal noticed and took it as a good sign.

Peter said, "Look, I get it. Believe it or not, I do. But we can’t let you keep a passport and money. You know that."

Neal looked away. No, of course they wouldn't let him keep them. It would be ridiculous to expect anything else. But that didn’t stop the acute sense of loss and confinement that fell on top of him like a cage.

Peter picked up the passport. "We’ll destroy this." He shook his head. "Don’t give me that look. It's for your own good. Once this passport is gone, we couldn’t turn you in even if we wanted to." He studied the information on the ID. "'Nick Halden,' huh? You do realize we've known about that alias for a while?"

Neal shrugged. "I'm not exactly in a position to be picky about my aliases."

"True. And would you like to tell us where you got this money?"

"It's mine." As far as he knew, it was. He had a couple secret caches that he shared with Mozzie, and Moz most likely got the money from one of them.

Peter's eyes narrowed. "You sure? Now's the time to come clean if it's not. In fact, if there's anything else we need to know about, it'll be easier on you if you tell us now."

"There isn't," Neal said. And that was true—as far as he was concerned, there wasn't anything Peter and Elizabeth needed to know.

Peter didn't look entirely convinced, but didn't push it. He got a sturdy pair of scissors from one of the kitchen drawers and began to cut up Neal's masterfully-forged passport. Neal itched to stop him, and curled his hands into fists.

Perhaps to distract him, Elizabeth said, "I guess we'll hang onto the money for you, so you can have it when you're freed."

As Peter continued cutting, he said, "I don't suppose you'll tell us who gave you these things. And don't try to say you didn't have help. We know you did."

"It was just a friend."

"You know," Elizabeth said, "you _should_ tell us. It might make your punishment easier. And whoever did this was wrong to encourage you escape."

Peter sighed. "And you wonder why we don't want you talking to Kate? It's because of stuff like this. Your friends are a bad influence."

"Kate didn't have anything to do with this," Neal snapped. For a moment, he was scared that they would go after her. He didn't worry as much about Mozzie—Peter didn't know about him, and Neal planned to keep it that way. But he knew Peter could find Kate. And she didn't even have anything to do with this.

But Peter said, "Don’t worry—we know it wasn't Kate."

Neal looked at the passport scraps that littered the table. At first, Peter's words didn't register. But when they did, Neal looked up and said, "How do you know it wasn't Kate?"

Peter and Elizabeth shared a wary look. Neither answered him.

"How do you know?" he asked again. "Do you know where she is? Did something happen—"

"No," Peter said, putting his hands on his hips. "I don't know where she is, and nothing _happened_. At least, not that I know about."

Neal wasn't convinced. He looked Peter in the eye, searching for some sign that he was holding out on him. But all too abruptly, Peter brought things back to the subject at hand.

"We're not talking about Kate right now. Go upstairs. We'll come up when we decide what to do with you."

That sounded more ominous than Neal liked. He wondered if perhaps this was it, if this was what would make them get rid of him. Then again, Elizabeth planned to save the money for him, and Peter had said this was his second chance. As far as Neal was concerned, he hadn't done anything that _needed_ a second chance. The passport and money had merely been a failsafe. Even Peter claimed to understand.

Neal trudged upstairs and collapsed on his bed. He put away his sketching and waited. He thought again about Kate, and Peter's confidence that she hadn't been the one who helped him. If Peter thought he would just forget about it and accept a non-answer, he was wrong. But tonight, there were other things to worry about, like how sore he would be when Peter got through with the paddle.

It was a half hour before Peter and Elizabeth came up to his room. Neither of them looked as angry as they had when Neal left them, but now they just looked tired. Predictably, Peter carried the paddle.

Neal sat up and waited for them to speak. After a lingering moment of silence, Elizabeth said, "You've put us in a difficult position."

"I know. You're supposed to turn me in."

"Yes, that's true," Peter said. "But what El means is that there's no good way to discipline you. Neal, you're smart. We shouldn't have to stress how badly this could've turned out for you. There could've been serious consequences, and we don't think you deserve to be enslaved for the rest of your life over a stupid mistake."

"And we might not always be able to protect you," Elizabeth said.

"I understand," Neal said tiredly. "And I know you guys are good to me." He hoped flattery would help him. They clearly wanted to make a point about how benevolent they were.

Peter, however, looked unimpressed. "That's your problem. You take for granted that there won't be serious consequences. You probably think you've gotten away with this because we're not turning you in. That's why we need to punish you."

"He's right," Elizabeth said. "We want to be nice, but we can't let you advantage of it."

Neal's jaw clenched. He wished they wouldn't act like they were doing it for his own good. They could at least be honest, and admit they were trying to control him. Oh, he thought they were telling the truth when they said they didn't want him to get in trouble. But if he wanted to risk an escape, that was his own damn choice.

"I guess you're going to paddle me, then."

"Yes," Peter said. "And you're getting a second paddling tomorrow. But we're also trying something different this time. You're going to be on your leash every time we take you out until we decide otherwise. And you're going to lose your clothes for the next three days."

Neal squirmed. "What do you mean, lose my clothes?"

"What do you think? It means no clothes for three days. And if you don't obey, it'll be longer. You're not leaving the house this week, anyway."

Neal started to protest. "It's December. It's cold."

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. "Then it's a good thing we keep the house warm, isn't it?"

"In addition—" Peter began.

Neal interrupted. "There's _more_?"

" _In addition_ , there will be no closing your bedroom door, or the bathroom door, for a week. We need to cure you of this idea that you can expect privacy."

"Is that it?" Neal asked bitterly.

"Yes, unless you think we're being too lenient."

Realizing that arguing would just lead to more punishment, Neal stood up with a sigh. Even though he'd stripped in front of them before, he undressed slowly. He threw each item of clothing onto the floor, but neither Peter nor Elizabeth reacted.

It wasn't like he really minded being naked. He'd never had much modesty. But that was a different thing entirely than not being _allowed_ any modesty. And he didn't like the way Peter looked at him. The collar around his neck only made him feel more exposed.

When he'd finished undressing, Peter pointed at the mess of clothes on the floor. "Now you can pick those up and put them away properly."

Neal glared at him, and Peter put his hands on his hips and said, "Or, if you don't have respect for the clothes we've given you, you can do without them for longer."

Still glaring, Neal picked up his shirt and jeans and hung them up in the closet. He took his time, perhaps trying to delay the inevitable. But when he turned around, Peter was sitting on his bed with the paddle in hand, and Neal decided he wanted to get it over with. He lay across Peter's lap without waiting to be told, and Peter's satisfied murmur indicated that it was the right choice.

If it mitigated the spanking, Neal couldn't tell. The blows came hard and fast, and Neal couldn't stop himself from squirming on Peter's lap. He hated how being spanked made him squirm—his dick was pressed against Peter's thigh, and he knew Peter could feel it.

This spanking was surprisingly short, and Neal briefly considered it a mercy. Then he remembered that he was due for a second one tomorrow. When Peter released him and stood up, Neal climbed onto the bed.

"I don't know if this will teach you the seriousness of what you did," Peter said, "but I hope it made an impression."

Of course it made an impression. Every time he got spanked, it felt like the paddle made a literal impression in his ass. But he didn't think he'd learned the lesson Peter wanted.

When they left him, he pulled the covers around his naked body and curled up. He couldn't sleep. He cared less about the punishment than the inevitable misery that would follow. He thought back to when they'd caught him sneaking out, and the lengths he'd had to go to get back into Peter's good graces. He could only imagine what Peter would expect this time.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, Peter promised him another "good paddling" when he got home from work.

By that point, Neal had a difficult time caring about the spanking. He realized he preferred being spanked to having his clothes taken away. At least a spanking was over after a few minutes, and didn't confine him to the house.

At least he didn't have to go out in public like this. He was very appreciative of the fact that New York included slaves in its public nudity laws.

Elizabeth allowed him to wear an apron while he cooked dinner. He intended to keep it on for a while, but when he'd finished cooking, Elizabeth came up behind him and undid the ties. She pulled the apron off and took it away.

"Should we wait for Peter?" Neal asked. Dinner was ready, and there was still no sign of him.

As if on cue, the phone rang. Elizabeth picked up the cordless phone and wandered into the living room with it. Neal picked up enough of her voice to tell she was talking to Peter, and that Peter was running late. 

When she came back in the kitchen, she said, "Peter's gotten held up at work and won't be home for a while. He doesn't want you to wait up for him. Would you like me to give you your spanking after dinner, or would you rather get it from Peter in the morning?"

For a moment, Neal was taken aback. Elizabeth had never spanked him before, and the matter-of-fact way she spoke about it put him off-guard. Peter always showed his displeasure when he spanked him, but Elizabeth made it sound like just another bothersome obligation of slave ownership.

Something about the thought of Elizabeth spanking him was embarrassing, even though she'd born witness to his spankings often enough. But Neal didn't want to put of his punishment for much longer.

"You can do it," he said.

Elizabeth gave him a small, puzzling smile, as though she was proud. "We'll take care of it after dinner."

She said nothing more about it until after Neal finished the dishes. Then she called him into the living room, saying, "All right, Neal. Let's get this over with."

He saw that she'd brought the paddle downstairs. He'd hoped she might not think it necessary, but apparently she did. Or she was determined to follow Peter's wishes.

She studied Neal with a small frown, and said, "Why don't we have you over the arm of the sofa? I think that'll work best."

Maybe she thought he was too large to put over her knee. Neal was glad. There was something uncomfortably intimate about having to go across Peter's knee, and he didn't think doing it with Elizabeth would be an improvement.

Wanting to get it over with, he fought the twinge of shame in his stomach and bent over the arm of the sofa. Elizabeth placed the paddle against his skin, as though getting her aim, and then drew it back. Neal braced himself, and a moment later, he received a solid, stinging swat. He jerked and stifled a grunt.

She gave him three more in rapid succession. Then there was nothing. Neal didn't move.

After a moment, she said, "It's all done. You can stand up now."

Neal stood slowly. That was all? He didn't dare remark on it, in case Elizabeth didn't realize she'd been lenient.

Lenient or not, he had to give her credit. Those four swats were strong. He reached back with both hands to rub his ass.

"Does Peter allow you to rub?" Elizabeth asked firmly.

Neal moved his hands and smiled sheepishly.

Elizabeth set the paddle aside and sat on the sofa. As though the spanking was a distant memory, she patted the space beside her and said, "Why don't you join me? I can keep you warm."

All day, Neal had hoped that she might let him cheat on his punishment and wear some clothes. He'd tried to encourage her by hinting that he was too cold.

By now, he'd given up on the possibility of getting any clothes tonight. Deciding to take what he could get, he sat down beside her and let her guide his head onto her shoulder. He thought Peter might not like him being naked on the sofa, but he didn't care, and if Elizabeth tried to make him sit on the floor, he'd complain that his ass hurt.

While she turned on the TV, Elizabeth ran her fingers through his hair and said, "You've been good today, considering." She set down the remote and looked at him. "You know, we want to be able to trust you. What do you think would happen if we tried trusting you more?"

Neal raised his eyes to see her face. He could just make out a small frown and inquisitive look.

"You wouldn't regret it," he said.

"Hmm." She studied him for a moment longer, and didn't say anything more.

 

* * *

 

On the third day of his punishment, he was dusting the bookshelves in the living room when Peter came home from work.

"Elizabeth's running errands," he told Peter. "She said to tell you she'd be back by six, and that she's going to pick up take-out tonight."

"Sounds good."

Neal felt ridiculous doing his chores in the nude. There had been so many chores, too. Elizabeth was more exacting than usual, which was the only sign she gave him that she was unhappy with him. This was his second time dusting the shelves today—the first time, he'd missed some spots.

Peter came up behind him and wrapped his arm around his waist. Neal froze, holding the feather duster in mid-air. He'd put up with an inordinate amount of groping over the past few days.

Peter's hand drifted downward, and he held Neal's balls gently in his hand. His other hand made its way between Neal's thighs from behind. 

Neal squirmed, and Peter tightened his grip on Neal's balls just enough to make him stop.

"You know," Peter said, his voice full of good humor, "I'm starting to wish we didn't punish you this way."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, I could get used to coming home to a naked slave now and then. But I guess it wouldn't be fair to make you, since we decided it was a punishment."

Neal let out a small, relieved breath. Peter kissed his neck just above the collar.

"It's been three days," Neal said.

Peter released him. "Well...there are a few hours yet. But I guess we can call it. You've been good."

Neal set down the duster, preparing to dash upstairs and get dressed. But Peter put a hand on his arm, stopping him.

"First, I want to have a chat with you."

Neal had a sense of foreboding, but he followed Peter to the sofa. Peter sat down and motioned for Neal to get down on his knees in front of him. He started to suspect that "chat" was a new euphemism for "blow job."

"I've been thinking," Peter said. "You like it here all right, don't you? I mean, you complain, but you realize you have it pretty good. We both know you prefer being a personal slave to some of the alternatives. And Elizabeth and I have tried to take care of you."

"I guess it could be worse," Neal admitted.

"The thing is, it's gotten out of hand. See, I try to be a good person—"

"You have your moments."

Peter gave Neal's hair a tug. "I've tried to make you comfortable. Give you time to adjust to your new life. But I think we both know you're taking advantage of that."

"I wouldn't put it that way...."

Peter smirked. "No, I suppose you wouldn't. The point is, after this latest fiasco, it's time your attitude changed. You need to start showing me that you can be useful. That I've made the right decisions with you."

"I'm not sure what you mean," Neal said innocently.

"I think you do."

Neal realized now that the passport had, in fact, been the last straw. He'd pushed Peter too far, and now the days of getting by with his reticence were over. Peter wouldn't give him the benefit of the doubt anymore.

He would have to give Peter what he wanted. At least for now, until the tide blew over. He saw no other way.

Neal had drifted off in thought, and was focusing on Peter's knees. Peter put a finger under his chin and lifted it.

"Do we understand each other?"

Neal swallowed. "Perfectly."

Peter gave him a warm smile. "Good." He released Neal's chin and undid his belt. "Seeing you naked is making me hard. Suck me off, and then you can go get dressed."

Peter spread his legs, and Neal shuffled between his thighs.

"Yes, sir."


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More secrets are revealed.

After dinner, Neal cleaned up the take-out containers. There were no dishes, which was a welcome change.

Peter and Elizabeth were speaking softly to each other at the dining room table. Neal could see the tenseness in Elizabeth's back, and the lines on Peter's forehead. He listened carefully.

"Honey?" Elizabeth asked. She raised her voice slightly, as though she intended for Neal to hear. "Do you want to show him now?"

"Yeah, let's," Peter said.

Elizabeth caught Neal's eye. "Neal, why don’t you come here? Peter and I have something we want to show you."

Neal was washing his hands. He turned off the water and reached for a towel. Peter went into the living room and returned a moment later with what looked like an evidence bag with a piece of paper inside. Neal thought it might be more FBI work, maybe another document Peter wanted him to authenticate. But as he joined them at the table, he caught sight of familiar handwriting.

It was Kate’s letter.

Elizabeth must have seen the recognition in his eyes. "We thought it was time we shared this with you. We probably waited too long, but Peter wanted to have it checked out first. And then we weren’t sure what to say."

Neal's heart was pounding. He looked at Peter. "You shared it with the FBI?"

"I had a couple of my people look at it. Don’t worry—it was all off the record."

Neal reached for the letter, but Peter pulled it back. "Before we let you have this, I want to warn you that it might not be what you were hoping for." He waited a moment to let the words sink in, and handed Neal the note.

Neal didn't know what to make of Peter's warning. Something wasn't right, but all Neal cared about was finally reading the letter. He sat at the table and opened the bag with trembling fingers. He took the letter out of the envelope.

_Dear Neal,_

_I know you’re expecting to see me, but you won’t. I’m sorry. I wish that I hadn’t agreed to meet, but it’s too late now._

_I love you. You’re my best friend, and nothing will change that. But I know that meeting now would be a mistake, and only make us both long for what we can’t have. There’s no hope for a relationship between us right now. Stay safe, and finish your sentence. Don’t forget about me, or about freedom. But for now, let the past be the past, and worry about the future when it comes. Know that I’m fine, and that you don’t need to worry about me. I hope that when you’re freed, we can talk._

_With love,  
Kate_

Neal set the letter on the table. He stared numbly at it, unable to focus on the works on the page.

"I’m sorry," Elizabeth said. "I know it’s a disappointment. You can see why we hesitated to give it to you."

"She didn’t write this," Neal said softly.

Peter sighed. "Then who did? What do you think, that we had someone forge it?"

Neal glared at him. "I don't know. Maybe you did."

"C’mon. Be reasonable. Besides, you’re the forgery expert. Does it _look_ like a forgery?"

It didn’t. Neal looked for any possible signs, any misshapen letters or hesitation marks. But it was Kate’s handwriting. And Peter was right—the idea it could be a forgery was too outlandish. It was something Mozzie would believe. If Mozzie had the same faith in Kate that Neal had.

"Honestly," Peter said, "she did the right thing. I know it doesn't feel that way, but it’s true."

Elizabeth squeezed his arm. "We should have given it to you sooner. We wanted to make things easier, but I guess it didn't work out that way. The last thing we wanted was for you to worry."

Neal ignored the soothing words. "You said you had some people look at it...." he said, looking at Peter.

"We didn't find any coded messages, if that's what you're wondering."

That didn't mean there _wasn't_ one. It only meant that Peter's people hadn't been able to find it. Then again, Peter had had the note for over a month now. Plenty of time to study it.

"It isn't like she's leaving you," Elizabeth said. "Not forever."

No, not forever. He tried to imagine the future Kate proposed. They would have to deal with this. She would act like she felt guilty for abandoning him, and he would act like it wasn’t abandonment. It was easy enough to say he was okay with Kate moving on, and part of him really was. He'd told her once that he wouldn't want her to wait for him if he was enslaved. But the reality was more complicated. It was humiliating to have the people he cared about see him as a slave, but it was worse to feel disposable.

Neal didn’t speak, and Peter and Elizabeth seemed to search for something to say. Looking at the letter, Neal's eyes briefly blurred over in tears. He quickly blinked them away and bit his knuckles. He wanted to be alone.

"If you really think about it," Peter said, "this makes things easier for you. You don't have to worry about her, or what she'd think."

Neal knew what Peter meant—it'd be easier for Neal to put out if he wasn't thinking about his girlfriend. Did they really believe that was the biggest obstacle for him? Did they think he'd enjoy being a slave if he were single?

But he saw a chance to save a bit of his dignity. He didn't like being this vulnerable. Taking a deep breath, Neal forced a small smile. "Maybe you’re right. I guess I should focus on the present. At least she's okay." Holding up the letter, he said, "Can I keep this?"

"Of course," Peter said. "It's yours."

"Peter and I were going to watch a movie," Elizabeth said, "if you'd like to join us."

"Thanks, but I'm getting tired. Would it be okay if I went upstairs now?"

Elizabeth's smile faltered but she said, "Sure. Get some rest."

Neal gratefully got up and took his letter upstairs. His first instinct was to close his door, but that particular part of his punishment was still in effect.

However, he'd learned that having his bedroom door open wasn't all bad. He had the third floor to himself most of the time, and what he sacrificed in privacy, he almost made up for in his improved ability to hear someone coming up the stairs.

In any case, it wasn't as humiliating as having to leave the bathroom door open. Peter didn't make a point to gawk at him, but Neal still wasn't used to showering and using the toilet without privacy.

Neal sat on his bed, turned on the bedside lamp, and studied Kate's note. He still wanted to believe there was some sort of hidden message in it. Something Peter missed.

He was still studying it in vain a couple hours later, when he heard footsteps on the stairs. He quickly stashed it in the nightstand and lay down, pretending to have been resting.

He lifted his head when Elizabeth appeared in the doorway. She had already changed into her pajamas. She gave him a sympathetic smile and came into the room.

"I just wanted to say goodnight," she said. "And make sure you weren't too upset. I know you were hoping for...more. With the letter."

"It's okay." 

Uninvited, she came over and sat on the edge of the bed. She put a hand on his hip. "Peter's right, you know. She didn't say she was _leaving_ you."

Neal propped himself up on his elbow. "If Peter was in my position, would you write what she did?"

Elizabeth frowned. Her hesitation told him everything he needed to know.

"If it were Peter," she finally said, "I'd do whatever I could to stick by him. But that doesn't mean anything about you and Kate. And—well, if it _does_ , then maybe it's better to know now, and not in four years."

Perhaps. He was starting to worry that Kate had been a pleasant delusion, like the passport. Could it be she intended for him to forget about her?

No, Neal didn't believe that. He couldn't see it as abandonment. Perhaps she thought it was what he wanted. He _had_ told her it was okay to move on.

Elizabeth kissed his temple and said goodnight. As she got up to leave, she hesitated and looked as though she wanted to say something more. Perhaps invite him to join them. But whatever it was, she changed her mind and left.

Neal got under the covers and hugged his pillow. It was a long time before he slept.

 

* * *

 

When Neal was in the mood for reminding himself of how unfortunate he was (and he was in that mood a lot, lately), he estimated how much "work" he would do over the next few years.

Elizabeth enjoyed having him eat her out at least once a week, but that didn't feel so much like a job, even if it really was.

With Peter, of course, it was different. Neal saw it as a job, so Peter treated it like one, and that made it feel even more like a chore. A self-perpetuating cycle. 

Peter liked to be sucked off one or two times a week. That could easily average four-hundred blow jobs before Neal was freed. On the other hand, he was satisfied with getting his ass eaten no more than once a month, which might amount to a considerably smaller forty-five-ish. The downside was that Peter was especially firm with Neal during those times, as though he anticipated that Neal might protest about rimming him. Peter almost seemed to find catharsis in Neal's dislike of the duty.

And eventually, he would make good on his threat to fuck Neal in the ass, and Neal could only guess what that would add to his schedule. With luck, it would replace some of the blowjobs and rimjobs, rather than add to them. Peter's libido couldn’t be _that_ strong.

Neal was thinking of this while he knelt on the hard porcelain of the bathtub, facing Peter's ass. Peter was furiously jerking himself off. He had one hand braced against the wall of the shower and leaned forward with his head bowed, allowing the water to flow down his back and onto Neal's head. The water soaked Neal's hair. He blinked, trying to clear his eyes.

"C'mon, Neal," Peter said with a groan. "I brought you in here for a reason." He inched his feet as far apart as he could in the tub, and pushed his ass out until his cheeks were just an inch from Neal's nose.

Neal wondered how much hot water was left. A cold shower would kill Peter's arousal quickly enough.

"Will I get to go to another museum?" Neal asked.

"No," Peter said, "you don't get a reward _every_ time you do what you're supposed to. Now come on—I want to feel your tongue."

Since the first time Peter made him do this, Neal had had the dubious fortune of learning what one of Peter's slave training books had to say about rimming.

_Ass worship can be an excellent way of encouraging submission and humility in a slave. Regardless of whether they are inclined to enjoy it, many slaves find the act extremely intimate. It can help defiant slaves learn their place, and can be a soothing, affirming ritual for those slaves who appreciate their owners._

Since reading that, Neal's opinion of the act had lowered considerably. It didn't make him feel submissive or _soothe_ him. And he didn't like the idea of Peter trying to manipulate him through sex.

"Neal," Peter said, "I thought we had an _agreement_."

He'd known it was only a matter of time before Peter played that card. Neal was loath to accept it, but Peter had him in a bind. Peter's patience had all but run out.

At least he'd shown some restraint and held off on the sex for a few days after giving Neal Kate's letter. Neal supposed that he and Elizabeth intended to be kind. Or maybe they didn't want him to think they'd only given him the letter in an effort to control him.

With a small sigh, he leaned forward and touched Peter's hole with his tongue. Peter shivered with pleasure, and the muscles in his ass tightened.

"That's what I'm talking about," Peter said with a breathy chuckle.

There was no benefit to prolonging things. Neal moved his tongue in a circle and gently licked at the tensed asshole.

Neal was good at many things, and this, evidently, was no exception. Maybe if he had to stop resisting, he would find a way to take advantage of the effect he had on Peter. Perhaps Peter would be more pliant if he was kept well-sated.

After a few minutes, Peter shuddered and gasped. Realizing it was over, Neal stopped without waiting for permission. He sat back on his heels and watched Peter's come wash down the drain.

As they were drying off, Neal asked, "Have I proved my usefulness?"

Peter's face was obscured by the towel he was drying his hair with. His dick swung between his legs—it was returning to a flaccid state, now. Lowering his towel, Peter revealed a small smile.

"You're making a good start. I knew you just needed a little motivation."

"Yeah," Neal said with a scoff.

Peter turned to him and narrowed his eyes. "Don't sulk."

Neal crossed his arms and studied the tile floor.

"Look," Peter said, "I know the past week has been a disappointment. But what can you do? You've just gotta move on and accept the way things are right now."

Neal looked up. "And what? Just forget about Kate?"

"I'm not saying _forget_ about her. Just wait and see how you feel in four years."

Neal shrugged. "I can't blame her, you know. She deserves better than a guy enslaved for almost half a decade."

Peter pulled on a pair of boxers. Neal didn't have any clean clothes to change into—he hadn't gotten a chance to grab any when Peter ordered him into the shower. But the bathroom was still warm, and the mirror was fogged up from steam.

"Hey, keep your chin up." Peter smiled. "I know something that'll cheer you up—El and I are going to try something new with you. If you stay on your best behavior, we'll give you a little reward every couple weeks. We figure a little positive motivation won't hurt."

"Great," Neal said, not even trying to sound enthusiastic.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Peter and Elizabeth introduced what they called the "Reward Jar." It was a large glass jar that had been covered in bright green masking tape, obscuring the contents.

"There are slips of paper inside," Elizabeth said. "Each one has a reward written on it. Every two weeks, if you've been good, we'll let you pull one out. We'll also let you pull one out if you do something special."

She smiled and looked at him expectantly. But if they'd hoped to make him happy, they hadn't succeeded. He could already see the potential for disappointment.

Neal picked the jar up off the dining room table and examined it. "Do I get to choose which reward I want?"

Peter took the jar from him and put it back down. "No. Whatever you pull out, you get. This way, you can't blame us if it's not what you were hoping for, and we won't have to disappoint you by vetoing any crazy ideas you have."

"But I _can_ blame you—you're the one who chose the rewards...."

He hoped this wasn't going to be the _only_ way he'd get a reward from now on. But he didn't dare ask.

The next afternoon, when Elizabeth left the house, Neal took the jar off the kitchen counter and emptied the contents onto the dining room table. He turned each card right-side up and read them.

Some of the rewards were predictably unimpressive, and he suspected they were ideas they got from a slave training book. There was "Allowed to sleep in master bedroom" (in their bed, hopefully, and not on the floor), and "Allowed to sit on living room furniture" (big deal. He did that anyway when Peter wasn't around).

But there were a few that appealed to his interests. There was "A glass of wine," "Extra coffee," and "A new book."

When he was finished, he quickly put the cards back in the jar. He arranged them so that the most appealing ones were on top.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neal helps Elizabeth with a party.

On Saturday morning, he heard Peter and Elizabeth arguing in the kitchen. He stopped by the stairs and listened. They rarely argued, so when they did, it was worth listening in.

"You've used him for work," Elizabeth was saying. "Why can't I?"

"That's different," Peter said with a scoff. "Hughes _asked_ me. What was I supposed to say?"

"Look, Neal is bored and lonely. This thing with Kate affected him a lot more than he's letting on, and it's got to be hard, not having anyone to talk to."

"He has us! We talk to him."

"That's different. It's not like he's going to feel comfortable venting or complaining—"

"Oh, I think Neal is very comfortable complaining."

"My point is, he needs to meet some people on his level."

"You mean criminals."

"I mean other slaves."

"It's the same thing, El. Besides—if you make him do this, he'll just make a fuss. He's going to think it's degrading. The last thing you need tonight is him acting up."

Now Neal's interest was piqued. What could Elizabeth suggest that _Peter_ would find degrading?

"Well, if Neal thinks it's so degrading, I won't take him. I'll let him decide."

"Okay, fine. But he's not going to do it."

Neal chose that point to enter the kitchen. "I'm not going to do what?"

Elizabeth's eyes brightened and she smiled. "Oh, Neal, you're up! Good! I have a favor to ask you. I have an important party tonight, and one of the slaves who was going to be a waiter is sick. How would you like to come along and serve hors d'oeuvres?"

Neal smiled, but he glanced at Peter as he said, "I'm sure I'd be delighted."

Peter narrowed his eyes.

Did Peter think him so proud that the prospect of working as a waiter would keep him from attending a party? True, it wasn't ideal, but it wasn't like Neal had any better opportunities at the moment.

"Hold on a sec," Peter said, "she hasn't told you about the theme. Or the costumes."

"Theme?" Neal asked, turning to Elizabeth.

She kept smiling, but the muscles around her mouth tensed. "The party is a benefit to raise money for an exhibition of ancient Greek pottery. My client wants the servers to dress up as nymphs and satyrs. I know it's a little ridiculous, but I think it's going to be very tasteful."

Neal glanced at Peter, who was barely containing a smirk. Evidently, this was what Peter had meant when he said "degrading."

Were the costumes _that_ bad, or was Peter simply not a fan of Greek mythology? 

Elizabeth walked over toward the back door and picked up a large shopping bag. "Here," she said. "I brought home a costume to see how it fits."

She pulled out a mass of cloth that was covered in synthetic brown fur. At first, it looked like an oversized version of the fake animal pelt that Satchmo played with, but when Elizabeth held it up, Neal saw that it was, in fact, a pair of pants. The thighs were wider and padded, as though to mimic the appearance of goat legs. She handed them to Neal.

"Go on—take off your pants and try those on."

Evidently, she meant for him to do it right there, in the middle of the kitchen. Slowly, Neal slipped out of his jeans and pulled on the strange goat pants. They were heavy and thick, and the inside material was a little rough against his skin. He was tempted to ask if they were new or if they'd been worn before, but decided he didn't want to know the answer. They were very low-cut; the sides hugged the lines of his hip bones, the back barely concealed his ass, and the front dipped even lower.

Elizabeth pulled a pair of shoes out of the bag. The fronts were decorated to look like hooves. She set them on the floor and stood back, appraising Neal with a critical look in her eye.

"Not a bad fit...." She walked over and tugged at the waist of Neal's boxers, which protruded from the top of the pants. "This won't do. You'll need to wear something lower-cut. Didn't we get you some thongs?"

They had, and they were still buried in the bottom of the dresser drawer, never worn. Neal had never intended to wear them.

"Yeah...." he said, quietly.

"Then wear one tonight."

"Does this costume have a shirt?" he asked.

"No, just the pants and the shoes. Oh! And there are horns and a tail." She returned to the bag and pulled out the aforementioned items.

"Horns," Neal said.

"Satyrs are part goat or something," Peter said, looking pleased with himself.

"Yeah, thanks. I know my Greek mythology."

He was beginning to understand why Peter thought he wouldn't like this. Still, now that he'd agreed to help, he wasn't going to prove Peter right. Besides, Elizabeth would be impressed if he did this.

Next, he tried on the shoes. Satisfied that everything fit okay, Elizabeth then gave him permission to change back into his own clothes.

"The party starts at eight," she said, "and we'll need to be there by six so Naomi can do your makeup."

There was makeup, too? He didn't even bother asking about that, or about who Naomi was.

Putting on his best smile, he said, "Sounds great!"

 

* * *

 

Elizabeth left for the venue much earlier, and came home at five to change into a black cocktail dress and take Neal back with her. 

During the drive over, she told him, "Honestly, this is a huge help. The situation with the servers is a mess. The caterer wouldn't go along with the costume idea, and my client didn't want to 'waste' more money on servers, so she insisted on using her friends' slaves. And we need to have three men and three women because she wants an equal number of nymphs and satyrs. I don't know if any of the slaves have served at a party this big before. But at least I know I can rely on you." She looked over at him and smiled.

When they got there, the catering crew was bustling around and someone was testing the sound system. Neal carried the bag containing his costume, and Elizabeth held his leash.

A short woman with white hair walked over to them as they entered. She was wearing a beaded red dress and was followed closely by a younger woman in a slave collar. The slave was wearing a suit. She had light brown hair that was pulled back in a bun, and she kept reaching up to tuck a few loose, frizzy strands behind her ears.

Elizabeth put a hand on Neal's shoulder. To the older woman, she said, "Mimi, this is my slave, Neal. Neal, this is my client, Ms. Gallagher."

Neal bowed his head like he knew he was supposed to. "Ma'am."

Mimi Gallagher clasped her hands in front of her. "Oh, wonderful timing." She turned to her slave and said, "Naomi, why don't you take him back?"

Elizabeth unhooked Neal's leash and folded it up in her purse.

With a look at Neal over her shoulder, Naomi started in the direction of a door on the other side of the room. Neal caught up and walked beside her.

"Naomi, right?" he asked with a smile. "You're doing makeup?"

They reached the door and she paused with her hand on the handle.

"That's right. Among other things. Come on—I'll introduce you to the others."

She opened the door and led Neal into some sort of storeroom that had been converted into a makeshift dressing room.

There were five other slaves inside already, three women and two men. 

"Everyone," Naomi said, "this is Neal, with the event planner. Neal, this is Alyssa, Stephen, Liam, Rachel, and Susan."

"Hey," Neal said with a smile.

The others returned the greeting with more curiosity than enthusiasm. Stephen and Alyssa looked him up and down before returning to their previous conversation. Everyone was still dressed in their street clothes. Neal took a seat on a folding metal chair and took everything in.

Liam was the youngest. Neal guessed he couldn't have been older than twenty-one. He stood off by himself, and would occasionally reach back and rub his ass, probably subconsciously. Rachel and Susan were off by themselves, and after a few minutes of overheard conversation, he got the impression that they were both owned by the same family on the Upper East Side. Rachel, apparently, was the nanny. The family must have been infinitely more trusting than Peter was.

Stephen and Alyssa were sitting at a folding table, talking.

"I wouldn't believe him," Stephen was telling her.

"No, he really wants me to stick around when I'm freed." She brushed her long dark hair back from her face.

"Maybe he thinks he can get you to stay. Doesn't mean he's genuine."

"No, he's the real narcissistic savior type. He thinks he's 'saved' me. I've already convinced him to give me some money. Anyway, what's it matter? It's not like I'd really stay."

"I'm just saying...."

Alyssa reached out and ran a finger down Stephen's arm. "Aw, you're worried," she said with a grin. "I know what I'm doing."

Naomi was standing by the door, playing a game on a surprisingly nice cellphone. Looking up, she said, "Guys, it's almost six. I should get started on your makeup so you can get dressed."

"How come _you_ don't have to wear one of those stupid costumes?" Alyssa asked.

"Because I made myself useful," Naomi snapped.

Naomi walked over to a large bag in the corner and started to pull out makeup and cotton balls. Stephen turned to Neal.

"So, you belong to the event planner?" he asked. "You done this before?"

"You could say that." He'd _been_ to plenty of parties, and he'd posed as a butler or waiter a couple times, but the others didn't need to know how much experience he had.

"Hm," Stephen said. "My mistress throws a lot of parties. I've never done anything like this, though."

Naomi did the women's makeup first. As soon as she had finished Alyssa's, Alyssa picked up a hand-held mirror that was on the table and looked at herself.

When Naomi got to Neal, she brushed his hair out of his face with a gentle touch. She spread some glittery makeup on his cheeks, and then applied eyeshadow.

"You're good at this," he said.

Smiling, she said, "Thank you. My mistress has me do her makeup all the time."

When she finished, she rubbed some hair gel on her palms and slicked back Neal's hair. Her hands lingered a moment longer than they needed to, and Neal grinned at her. She wiped the gel off her hands and put the horns in Neal's hair. As she leaned over him, Neal caught the scent of sandalwood.

When everyone's hair makeup was done, they changed into their costumes. There was no privacy, but the only one who looked uncomfortable about that was Liam. Neal followed the others' lead.

There was no full-length mirror in the room, but looking at Stephen and Liam, Neal got a pretty good idea of how _he_ must look. The costumes didn't look half bad. They weren't realistic, exactly, but they looked better when they were put together. The women had gauzy, toga-like dresses with short skirts.

"This is stupid," Liam muttered. "I can't believe my master is making me do this."

"What are you talking about?" Stephen said. "Parties are great. How long have you been at this, anyway?"

"What?" Liam asked. "Slavery? A couple months."

"Be glad for the change of pace," Stephen said. "I am."

Naomi huffed. "You haven't had to help with this thing for the past month."

"You're the one who decided to make yourself useful," Alyssa said.

Neal sensed that commiserating would help him fit in. "I never realized how much work went into these things," he said. "At least this time, I didn't have to correct mistakes on four-hundred menus."

"Tell me about it," Naomi said. "Mimi is always hosting these things, and I get all the tedious work. Still, I can't complain. At least I'm trusted." She looked at Alyssa.

The conversation lulled for a minute, and Neal wished he'd been allowed to wear his watch. He didn't know how long they would have to wait, and with his tail attached, sitting down was impossible.

Rachel, who had only talked to Susan since Neal arrived, looked at Stephen and said, "I heard about your owners. It must be stressful."

Stephen shrugged. "Not really. It's about time they broke up. Actually...." He looked around the room with mock hesitation. "I may have had something to do with it."

Alyssa smiled. "I thought you might."

Again, Stephen hesitated, but Neal could tell it was just for show. He was dying to tell everyone.

"Yeah," he said. "See, Donna and Roger haven't had sex in over six months, and—"

"You shouldn't talk about your owners like that," Naomi said. "What if your mistress found out?"

"Then I guess someone in this room would be a snitch, huh? Anyway, Donna didn't know he was making me suck him off every time she left the damn apartment for more than five minutes. I knew she wouldn't approve, but what was I going to do? Even if I could prove it, that's no guarantee she'd do anything. But Roger's also been having an affair with some woman from work. A couple weeks ago, he brought her home and afterward, he told me that his girlfriend hadn't been able to find her bra, and if I found it, I had to give it to him right away. I was changing the sheets, and sure enough, the bra was under the bed. So I washed it and stuck it in the drawer with Donna's things. When Donna found it, I just told her the truth—it'd been on the floor in the bedroom. They got in a big fight and sent me out for a while, and when I came home, he was packing his bags. It's an improvement, I'll tell you that." 

Neal recalled what he'd overheard Elizabeth say about wanting him to have a chance to complain. He wondered if she had any idea what type of conversations actually went on. 

He knew Elizabeth had brought him here tonight for one reason: so he could meet other slaves. Maybe part of her hoped it would help him understand his place better. But he sensed that, with the possible exception of Liam, these slaves all had owners who were much more trusting and easier to manipulate than Peter and Elizabeth were. And with the exception of Naomi, none of them seemed very respectful toward their owners. They were rich people's pets and servants—what Neal had hoped to be when he realized slavery was inevitable.

Stephen continued to brag about his problem-solving until, finally, the door opened and Elizabeth came in. She quickly looked them over.

"Oh, you look great." She smiled at Naomi. "You did a wonderful job." Addressing the group, she said, "It's almost time to start, so I need you all out on the floor. You're going to walk around and offer the guests hors d'oeuvres and champagne. The caterer will explain everything to you." With a smile, she added, "If you all work hard, we'll let you guys eat the leftovers."

The others began to file out of the room. Elizabeth put a hand on Neal's arm, stopping him.

When they were alone, she said, "Everything going okay?"

"Great. Can't complain."

"Good. I hope you had a chance to chat with everyone." She looked at her watch. "Go on and join the others. I have to check on the band."

Neal followed the others to the kitchen, where a man from the caterer explained the job to them. It was simple enough: walk around the room with a tray and serve people, and collect champagne glasses when the guests were done.

Guests began to arrive, and the ballroom slowly filled with people. Neal and the other slaves circulated around the room, carrying trays.

For all the fuss about costumes and makeup, only a few guests gave Neal more than a passing glance. The ones who did were mostly women, whose eyes lingered on his bare chest as he walked by.

Soft music played above the din of conversation. Neal carried a tray of champagne glasses. It was soon empty, and he started to make his way back toward the kitchen.

The other slaves were following their orders with varying degrees of success. Rachel and Susan were focused on their work, but Stephen was sticking to the less-populated parts of the room. Alyssa was chatting with a couple guests. He caught sight of Liam just in time to see him stick some bruschetta in his mouth.

Neal thought it best to stay on track. He was, after all, doing this to impress Elizabeth and prove Peter wrong.

In front of him, a young woman in a pink dress was making her way through the crowd. Neal heard something fall and, looking down, saw a bracelet on the floor where she had just walked. No one else had noticed. Neal crouched down and quickly picked it up.

He stepped over by the wall. He set his empty tray on a table and examined his find. It was a sapphire and diamond tennis bracelet. His perfunctory study told him that the gems were high-quality. The bracelet would be worth several thousand, at least.

His chest pounded as he thought about how easy it would be to take it. The girl hadn't noticed it missing yet. No one, as far as he could tell, had seen him pick it up. Even these ridiculous pants had small side pockets that he could stash it in. It was ridiculously easy. He now saw why Peter didn't like the thought of him spending time around Elizabeth's clients.

Neal preferred to play the roles of men who were at home in high society. Men like Steve Tabernackle and Nick Halden. But Neal had also pulled some cons by pretending to be a waiter. It was perfect—so many people overlooked the servers, and events like these were chances for the rich to let their guard down and display their wealth. Surprisingly few people remembered that slaves were criminals.

Yet, if he was caught, it would mean time added to his sentence. It might even be enough for Peter to send him away and doom him to being government property. A small theft of opportunity didn't seem worth all that. And then he looked at the young woman, his potential mark. She was young, early twenties, maybe, and he doubted she was old enough to afford the bracelet on her own. He made his way over to where she was standing with a glass of water, and held out the bracelet.

"Excuse me," he said, "is this yours?"

Her eyes widened. "Oh my God, it is! Thank you so much! That clasp is getting loose."

"You'll have to watch that," Neal said. "It's very beautiful. It'd be a shame to lose it. May I?"

She nodded and held out her wrist. Neal put the bracelet around it and made sure the clasp was secure.

"There," he said with a smile.

The girl beamed at him. There was a barely-noticeable flush to her cheeks. She looked like she was going to say something, but then someone called out "Cecilia!" and she whipped around and hurried off in the direction of the voice.

"Why'd you give that back?"

Neal looked over his shoulder and saw Liam. His tray was empty, and Neal wondered how much of the bruschetta had ended up in his stomach.

"You could've taken it," Liam continued. "Bet it was worth a ton."

"Wasn't worth the trouble," Neal said.

Liam snorted. "Yeah, right. It was more trouble giving it back."

Neal narrowed his eyes. "What'd they get you for, anyway?"

"Stole some cars," Liam said, grinning. "Never met a car I couldn't break into."

"I can see it's working out great for you so far."

His smile faded. "Whatever. You got caught, too."

Someone grabbed Neal's shoulders. Neal turned his head and saw Elizabeth behind him.

"Enough conversation. People need champagne." She pointed at Liam. "And you—there are more appetizers in the kitchen."

Neal turned toward the kitchen, but Elizabeth stopped him.

"Oh, and if you see Stephen and Alyssa, let them know they're needed on the floor, okay? I haven't seen them in a while."

Neal went into the kitchen, followed closely by Liam. The catering crew was still at work, but everything was comparatively quiet compared to the other room. The sound of the party was muted. There was no sign of Stephen or Alyssa. Neal reloaded his tray with champagne and ventured back out into the din.

Soon, he'd given out half his glasses. He made his way around the perimeter of the room. When he was near the door to the storage room where he'd gotten changed, he heard a woman laugh. For a moment, he questioned whether the sound was coming from inside the room or from the crowd in front of him. No, it was definitely coming from inside the room.

There was a table nearby. He set down his tray and slowly opened the storage room door an inch. The room was dark, but he was able to see two familiar figures inside.

Alyssa had her arms wrapped around Stephen's waist. He was kissing her neck and had one hand up her skirt. She moaned and pressed her head against his shoulder.

Neal shut the door as quietly as he could. He looked around to make sure that he hadn't been seen, but, as usual, it was like he was invisible to the partiers. He picked up his tray and began to circulate in the crowd again.

He ran into Elizabeth again a minute later.

"I still haven't seen Stephen and Alyssa," she said. "They weren't in the kitchen?"

"Oh, right," Neal said, feigning a realization. "I think Alyssa went to the restroom. And I'm pretty sure Stephen went outside to have a cigarette."

Elizabeth sighed and shook her head. "Unbelievable!" She threw up her hands and stormed off.

Stephen might get in some trouble for smoking...but not as much as he would for screwing around with another slave, probably.

Alyssa emerged from the storage room first. A few minutes later, Stephen came out. Alyssa gave him a smile from across the room, but otherwise, they didn't acknowledge each other. Stephen looked at Neal, but didn't say anything.

The rest of the night was dull but mercifully quick. 

As the crowd began to thin out, there was less and less to do. Even Elizabeth seemed to slow down and catch her breath.

Neal was trying to look busy when he noticed the girl whose bracelet he'd found, Cecilia, eyeing him from a few feet away. He flashed a smile and she took it as an invitation, coming over to him.

"I wanted to thank you again for earlier," she said.

"It was my pleasure. It's been a while since I've seen sapphires with such gorgeous transparency."

She leaned against the wall. She held her evening bag in front of her and fiddled with the clasp. "You've seen a lot of gemstones?"

"You could say it's a hobby."

"Would it be really rude if I asked what happened?"

He blinked and touched his collar. "You mean this?"

She nodded and then looked away. "I'm sorry. I'm being rude...."

"No, no. I don't mind talking about it. I was falsely accused of bond forgery."

"Oh, wow."

"Yeah. I'm keeping a good attitude about it, though."

Elizabeth, who had been talking to her client on the other side the room, walked over.

"Neal," she said, "you're needed in the kitchen. Come on."

Neal gave Cecilia an apologetic shrug and followed Elizabeth. Once they were out of earshot, Elizabeth lowered her voice and said, "No flirting with the guests."

"She started it. And I wasn't even flirting. I'm being friendly."

"You were enjoying the attention. Now go." She gave him a gentle pat on the ass to propel him forward.

Neal walked off in a huff. He wasn't even that interested in the girl, really. Not like _that_. She was a couple years too young for him. But it was nice to get some attention from someone other than Peter or Elizabeth for a change. And there was no harm indulging her interest.

A half hour later, most of the guests were gone. Neal and the other slaves changed back into their street clothes. Elizabeth had the caterer leave a few plates of leftover appetizers in the kitchen. Neal hadn't eaten in hours, and now that the party was over, he realized how hungry he was. The others must have felt the same way.

When they gathered in the kitchen, Neal chose to listen more than talk. He wanted to hear about the other slaves' lives, but he didn't want to share too much about his.

Liam was complaining that he had to share a bed with another slave. 

"You're lucky," Stephen said. "I just get a mat on the floor. After four years, you'd think I'd get more recognition."

Neal got the sense that Rachel and Susan were too shrewd to complain so openly, but they seemed weary of the work they would need to do when guests came for Christmas.

"My consolation," Naomi said, "is that if I was free and doing the work I do, I'd probably make shit. At least this way, I have a generous mistress."

Alyssa shrugged. "Yeah, I'm fortunate, really. My master's gone all the time, so I have the apartment to myself a lot."

Gradually, the others were collected by their owners, until it was just Neal, Naomi, and Stephen who were left.

Stephen's mistress, Donna, was monopolizing Elizabeth and Mimi outside the kitchen, and Neal could make out Elizabeth saying things like, "In your own bedroom?" and "You're better off without him."

Naomi excused herself to use the restroom. As they finished off a plate of stuffed crab shells, Stephen leaned in closer to Neal and lowered his voice.

"Look, I know you saw me with Alyssa earlier."

"It's none of my business. I didn't say anything."

"Thanks. Listen, if Alyssa's master knew, it could ruin things for her. He's in love with her, and she's been running a con on him for a year now."

"No, I understand. It's good you're looking out for her."

"I owe you one. Hey, my mistress doesn't like to micromanage me, so I get out of the apartment a lot. Sometimes I do favors for people. I've delivered letters for Alyssa sometimes. If you ever want something, you can give me a call. We'll work something out."

Neal raised his eyebrows. "Just call?"

"I'm the only one who answers the landline."

He picked up a pen and notepad that was on the counter and scribbled down a phone number. He tore off the sheet, folded it up into a small square, and handed it to Neal.

Neal silently stashed it in his pocket.

Within an hour, Neal and Elizabeth were on their way home. After the music and the pervasive din of conversation, the drive was peacefully quiet. Elizabeth didn't even turn the radio on.

They were on the Brooklyn Bridge when she said, "You did a good job. I knew you'd make a natural server."

"I worked as a waiter for a while when I was sixteen."

He didn't mention the cons he'd run. The last thing he needed was to give them another reason to think he couldn't be trusted with a job like this.

"Well, you're very good at it. And I think it was good for you to get out of the house for a while. I'll have to use you the next time I need help."

"I'd be glad to help." Thinking of something, he said, "Don't servers usually wear uniforms?"

Elizabeth smiled. "You're right, they do. We'd have to pick you up some dress shoes, and maybe a white shirt." She glanced at him. "Don't look so excited. We can't get you anything _too_ fancy. It all needs to be tax deductible."

Neal barely paid attention to her warning. All he cared about was the prospect of getting new clothes. And, better yet, shoes.

"So, did you like meeting other slaves?"

He could tell she was trying to hide her interest, but it was obvious nonetheless. 

"Sure," he said, making sure to keep his tone nonchalant.

He wondered what she expected. Did she want him to make friends? Learn how to be a good slave? Learn his place?

"Mimi was telling me that she's looking for a boyfriend for Naomi. She thought you might be a good candidate." She chuckled, but gave Neal a curious glance.

Neal raised his eyebrows. "She wants me to date her slave? What did you tell her?"

"I said I didn't think we'd be interested. But if you _are_ , you know, I could talk to Peter. We could consider it."

"No," Neal said quickly. "I'd rather not have an arranged relationship. Thanks. How would that even work? You'd set up dates? Pick me up when they're over?"

"It's not uncommon, actually. Some owners do it so their slaves don't get lonely."

Neal didn't know what to think. Slave romances were not something he'd ever considered before, and tonight he'd gotten insight into two different ways of going about it.

"Do you _want_ me to date another slave?"

"Honestly? No. But if it would make you happy...."

If it would make him forget about Kate, that was. Now he understood what this was about.

"No," he said. "It wouldn't. Besides, I don't think Naomi and I had much chemistry."

Elizabeth looked relieved, but didn't say anything more on the issue.

When they got home, Peter was still up. He was reading a case file in front of the TV.

"Hey, Hon," he said as they came in the door. "How'd it go?"

"Wonderful," Elizabeth said. "And Neal made us proud."

"Good to hear."

"In fact," Elizabeth said, looking at Neal, "I think Neal deserves to draw a reward out of the jar."

Neal felt like sighing. He knew they were trying to manipulate him into good behavior, but did they have to be so patronizing about it? But he just played along, smiling as he followed Elizabeth into the kitchen. 

He remembered how he'd positioned the reward cards, and decided to pull out "A new book." He'd already looked at all of Elizabeth's art books, and he needed some new entertainment.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elizabeth plans a special present for Peter.

A few days later, Elizabeth took him to the mall for a pair of black dress shoes. 

He was pleased, and a little surprised, by how quickly things were moving. He hadn't been sure if she was serious about enlisting his help at work or if it was just an idea. An idea Peter might shoot down.

She further surprised him by letting him get a pair of dress pants, as well.

"I'd like to start taking you with me to work sometimes," she said. "Not just for events. You can be like an assistant."

Neal liked the sound of that. He thumbed through the racks, looking for a nice pair of pants in his size. Elizabeth had left the leash in the car, and seemed content to stand back and let him make his own selections with minimal guidance.

"Of course, it won't be every day. Peter and I want you to focus on us and the house, and we don't want to overwhelm you. But we've decided we're both going to use you at work more."

That meant he would be going back to the FBI offices, as well. Or at least helping Peter out from home. Neal welcomed it. It would keep him from getting bored, and maybe now they would see him as more than an expensive sex toy. And being Elizabeth's assistant was a great idea. Neal didn't have a problem serving at parties, but helping plan them was much more appealing.

Looking up, he said, "If I'm going to work, you know what would look good? A tie."

Elizabeth gave him a sympathetic smile. "Don't you think it'd be a little hard to wear a tie with your collar?"

Neal's face fell. She had a point. He'd worn his collar long enough that sometimes he managed to forget about it.

Seeing his expression, Elizabeth's brow furrowed and she said, "Well, maybe we can get you one next time, and you can give it a try."

A half hour later, they'd purchased a pair of pants and were making their way out of the store. As they made their way toward the entrance of the mall, Elizabeth stepped into a few other stores to browse, and Neal obediently followed.

"Just one more stop," Elizabeth told him.

He expected it to be another clothing store, but then he saw that she was leading him into Laurent's Slave Boutique. 

Laurent's Slave Boutique was like the supply store Peter had taken him to—except classier and more expensive. That didn't stop Neal from tensing at the sight of the leashes and cages in the display window.

As they stepped inside, Elizabeth put a hand on his arm and said, "Why don't you take a look around? I'll just be a few minutes."

Neal wasn't stupid. He was going to keep an eye on Elizabeth. He pretended to look around and stopped by a shelf of books. He found one titled _100 Ways to Please Your Owner: A Guide for Slaves_ and opened it. Keeping his head down, he raised his eyes and watched as Elizabeth went up to the counter.

"Hi," she said, "I had an order delivered to the store. My last name is Burke."

The woman behind the counter crouched down and came up a moment later with a cardboard box.

"Here it is. Will that be all?"

"If you don't mind, I'm just going to take a look at your books."

"No problem. I'll check you out whenever you're ready."

Neal put the book he was pretending to look at back on the shelf. He eyed the package sitting on the counter. It wasn't very big. What could Elizabeth have ordered?

Elizabeth started to browse the books, and Neal felt safe to take a look around the store. There were some restraints, mostly leather cuffs, to his right. Laurent's had more sexual items than the other store did. A shelf in front of him held an impressive array of dildos. One of the larger ones looked as thick as a soda can, and Neal's ass clenched.

He made his way to the back of the store. A sign hanging from the ceiling said "Furnishings." This was where they sold sleeping mats and bedding. Along the back wall was a modest selection of cages. At the far end of the row, a master with a male slave was looking at one of the floor models. He was tugging on the slave's leash, trying to get him to crawl inside the cage to try it out. The slave put up an impressively understated resistance. Neal could see him dig his heels into the floor.

Neal had been kept in a cage for most of his first day of slavery. Slaves always were for the first day or two, until the blood tests came back and the trainers were confident that there wouldn't be any outbursts.

He knew some slaves were caged as punishment, or even as a routine, and he was glad Peter and Elizabeth hadn't expressed an interest in that.

After a few minutes, Elizabeth paid for her order and motioned for Neal to come along. Neal took a deep breath as they left the store, as though the air inside had been toxic.

"So," he said, "what's in the box?"

"A surprise. I had it sent to the store so it wouldn’t be delivered when Peter's home. I don't want him getting his hands on it early."

A surprise for Peter. Purchased from a slave boutique. That didn't sound ominous _at all_.

Peter was still at work when they got home. Neal set down his shopping bags by the sofa and took off his coat.

"We could hide the package in my room," Neal said. "I don’t think Peter looks in my dresser very often."

"Nice try. I've got my own hiding places. Why don't you go put a kettle on in the kitchen? I'm in the mood for some tea."

Neal grudgingly went in the kitchen while Elizabeth ran upstairs with the package.

Elizabeth joined him a few minutes later. She'd taken off her shoes, and he barely heard her come into the room.

She got a mug out of the cabinet. "You want some tea?"

"Sure."

She grabbed a second mug for him and put them on the kitchen island. She sat down on one of the stools.

As Neal poured the water, Elizabeth said, "Peter told me the two of you have come to an understanding."

"I guess you could say that." 

Elizabeth dipped a chamomile teabag into her mug. As she twirled it around, she said, "Peter has done a lot for you. He saved you from going to auction, remember?"

She made it sound like he'd done it out of altruism. Though, maybe some small part of Peter justified it that way. Maybe they both believed they were saving him from the system. Or from himself. But he wasn't naïve enough to believe that was their main motivation.

No, Neal was there because chasing him had given Peter a hard-on.

Neal tried to take a sip of his tea. The water was still too hot, and it burned his tongue.

"Peter has been very patient," Elizabeth continued. "Maybe you haven't noticed, but he doesn't want to hurt you. And you know Peter's been working hard this week."

"Yeah, that art theft, right? Someone stole a painting from the Met."

It was big news. There'd been an article in the paper yesterday. He wondered if the thief was anyone he knew.

"It's almost Christmas," Elizabeth said, "and I think Peter deserves a treat."

"The surprise?"

"That's right. Tomorrow, we're going out to dinner at Donatella's. And when we get home, I want the two of you to spend some time together. There are things Peter has been waiting a long time to try."

Neal leaned on the island and tapped his fingers on the marble. He could figure out what "things" she meant, and he shook his head. "You know I can't promise that."

"I've planned a nice night. You're a big part of it. Can't you just try, for one night? You'll see it's not so bad."

"If you really want to give Peter something special, don't you think he'd rather be with you? I mean, I don't mean to pry, but it doesn't seem like you guys are having any trouble."

She smirked. "Having sex with you hasn't hurt our sex life yet. I think I'm safe."

"I know. Look, I'm not saying Peter's getting old, but he's not sixteen anymore. Guys need a little time between performances, and if you're planning a big date, I just think it'd be nice if you could really spend some time with him."

"Your concern is noted. I think Peter and I can figure out a way to enjoy ourselves—even if you _do_ manage to tire him out." She patted his hand. "No matter what Peter thinks, I know you'll make us proud."

Neal looked down at his tea. It seemed he'd finally encountered the flaw in his strategy of sucking up to Elizabeth. Or rather, she'd learned how to use it to her advantage.

Still, what could he do about it, aside from playing along?

He put a smile on his face and lifted his mug in a toast. "Your confidence is flattering."

 

* * *

 

Neal had assumed that when Elizabeth talked about going out to dinner, she meant _just_ her and Peter.

The next evening, however, he was told to get ready to go out. He'd never been invited along on anything resembling a date before. The thought of a nice dinner almost made up for his apprehension about what was going to happen later.

He and Peter were in the kitchen waiting for Elizabeth to finish getting ready. Peter was going through one of the junk drawers, haphazardly shoving stuff around. Neal had just organized that drawer a couple weeks ago, and he glared as he watched his work being undone.

With a sigh, Peter said, "Neal, have you seen a small screwdriver? I could've sworn I put it in one of these drawers."

"Not that I can recall."

He had seen it, in fact. It was now upstairs in his shoebox. He'd found it shoved in the back of the drawer, tangled in a pile of rubber bands. Could he be blamed for assuming they'd never look for it?

Peter stood up straight and put his hands on his hips. He pursed his lips and looked around the room with narrow, discerning eyes. He was on the hunt, now. Neal wondered if he should "find" the screwdriver somewhere and return it. Then again, he doubted Peter cared enough about it to institute a search of the entire house.

After a minute, Peter gave up on the screwdriver. He walked over to Neal, who was leaning on the kitchen island, and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"El tells me I'm in for a treat when we get home."

"Mm," Neal said, strained, "did she?"

"Yep."

He ran his hand down Neal's back and rested it on his ass. He gave his left cheek a hard squeeze and then patted it gently when Neal jumped.

Before he could harass Neal any further, Elizabeth came downstairs. She was dressed in a purple dress and heels.

"You guys ready? I want to get to Donatella's before it gets too busy."

Neal was all too eager to get out of the house. During the drive to the restaurant, he peered out the window at the city lights. He didn't get out at night that often.

Donatella's was warm and cozy, with soft lighting. Neal just wished that Peter hadn't insisted on taking him inside on the leash. The hostess noticed it right away.

"Do you want a kneeling pad for him," she asked, "or will he be joining you at the table?"

She gestured to a stack of kneeling pads. Most restaurants had them on hand for slave owners who didn't allow their slaves to sit with them.

Elizabeth put a hand on Neal's back. "He'll be at the table with us."

"All right. If you could just follow me...."

She led them to a corner booth. Peter stepped aside and motioned for Neal to get in first. Neal ended up sitting in the middle with his back against the wall.

As she handed them some menus, the hostess said, "If you'll look on the back, we have a selection of slave meals."

Neal had not been given a menu. He looked over Elizabeth's shoulder at the "slave meals" and frowned. His choices were a sandwich (bologna, turkey, or cheese), soup and bread, or a dish succinctly called "pasta with chicken."

"Seriously? Are these really my options?" Neal asked.

"Oh, no, sweetie," Elizabeth said. "You can get whatever you want."

"Within reason," Peter said.

That was better. He scooted closer to Elizabeth so he could read the menu more easily. It was difficult to decide what to get. It wasn't like he was deprived of good food at home, but this was the first time since his conviction that he'd been in a restaurant. He finally decided on the eggplant parmigiana. 

Peter and Elizabeth ordered a bottle of red wine. When it arrived, Neal looked wistfully at it. He hadn't even been given a wine glass. 

When their waitress came with their salads, however, Elizabeth asked for a third glass.

She filled the extra glass with wine and pushed it over to Neal. "There you go. A special treat."

Neal glanced at Peter. He offered no objections. Neal was a little suspicious of his good fortune, but he accepted the glass and took a sip.

He imagined the staff and other diners must think he was spoiled. He liked that.

While they ate, Neal listened with rapt attention while Peter talked about the missing painting from the Met.

"Do you have any leads?" Neal asked.

"Yeah," Peter said with a smile. "We think it's connected to three other thefts over the past decade. We have a few suspects."

Neal was on his second glass of wine. He'd poured it himself, and either his owners didn't notice or didn't care.

When dinner was over, Peter and Elizabeth ordered dessert. They didn't order anything for Neal, but Elizabeth allowed him to eat a few bites of her chocolate cake.

With the good wine and conversation, it was almost easy to forget about what was awaiting him at home.

 

* * *

 

"Hold still."

Neal was squirming. He was kneeling naked on Peter and Elizabeth's bed, and Elizabeth was sitting beside him, trying to affix a blue ribbon to his collar.

"I mean it," she said. "If you don't hold still, I'll have to spank you."

Despite her threat, her voice was calm. He was reminded of a couple weeks ago when she put together a gift basket for some new neighbors who moved in down the street. He'd watched her fuss over it, making sure the presentation was just right. He felt like that basket, now. 

Sometimes he forgot how much of a perfectionist Elizabeth could be. She'd been messing with the ribbon for five minutes, while Peter waited out in the hall for his "present."

The ribbon tickled his neck, making his muscles twitch. His knees were getting stiff.

At last, Elizabeth sat back with a satisfied smile. "There. Now, we just need a couple more accessories...." 

She got up and opened the nightstand drawer. Neal watched as she pulled out a pair of padded leather cuffs, a thin silver chain, and a strangely-shaped object that Neal suspected was supposed to go up his ass somehow.

These must have been what she'd ordered from Laurent's.

Holding up the cuffs, she said, "These are just in case we want to use them. I'll leave them over here for Peter."

Next, she picked up the silver chain. Now, Neal saw that they actually had small clamps on each end. Nipple clamps.

He started to pull back as she approached him, but she gave him a firm look. Gently, she reached out with her free hand and rubbed his nipples between her thumb and forefinger, making them harden and protrude from his chest. Then she opened one of the clamps and attached it to his left nipple.

Neal sucked in his breath. The clamp _hurt_.

Before he could protest, Elizabeth quickly attached the second clamp.

Neal squirmed. The movement made the silver chain sway back and forth, which caused the clamps to tug at his nipples. Then the chain settled, cool and heavy, against his stomach. At least the clamps had rubber tips.

Elizabeth cooed at him and patted his chest. "I know it takes some getting used to, but it's very sexy."

He was so distracted by the clamps that he barely registered Elizabeth reaching for the third item. She held it in front of his face. It looked like a large anal plug, except it had a second "finger," creating a sort of U shape.

"This is a prostate and perineum stimulator," Elizabeth said. "It's supposed to help provide a little foreplay."

"I don't think it's necessary."

"Peter will like it."

"Then why doesn't Peter put up his own ass?" Neal asked shortly.

Elizabeth gave him a quick swat on the ass, making the chain swing back and forth painfully. Neal let out an undignified groan.

"No complaining. I want you to have a good attitude for Peter."

She motioned for him to turn around, and he shuffled so that his back was to her. She put a hand between his shoulder blades and gently pushed him down.

"I can put it in myself..." Neal said. He didn't want to, but Elizabeth had never touched his ass before. Perhaps in other circumstances, he would have welcomed it. The sex they had together always approximated intimacy. This, getting bent over and prepared for Peter's dick while gravity caused the clamps to tug at his nipples, was something else entirely.

It hit him. He was going to get fucked. Maybe he could talk Peter out of it, but even if he did...it'd just be another temporary reprieve. There was something almost comforting about the inevitability, and for a moment he considered giving in. Neal shut his eyes and pressed his forehead to the bed. He was getting a headache—too much wine at dinner, maybe.

Elizabeth rubbed his thigh. "It's all right. We're going to make this enjoyable. You'll see—it's going to be fun." She reached around with her other hand and gave his cock a quick stroke. 

The air cooled around him as she stepped away. He heard the sound of a bottle opening, and a moment later, he felt her finger, slick and cool with lube, circling around her hole.

Her touch was slow and gentle. Neal wondered if she'd done this before. He didn't think Peter had—when he put his fingers in Neal's ass, there was something impatient about it. Last time, he'd tried to poke his thumb inside him before Neal was relaxed and lubed enough, and he'd huffed in disappointment when Neal's hole was too tight.

When Elizabeth placed the tip of the toy against Neal's hole, the urge to tighten up against the intrusion battled with the knowledge that he should relax. Comfort won over dignity, and he relaxed and bore down, letting the toy slip inside him. When the widest part of it stretched his hole, it was shamefully pleasurable. But it only lasted a moment before the whole thing was inside him.

The other finger rested firmly against his perineum.

Neal had just started to adjust to the sensation when Elizabeth fiddled with the base and the toy began to vibrate. A loud hum filled the room. Neal jumped and Elizabeth laughed.

"Oh, sweetie...that got a reaction. Well, the website did say it was supposed to be intense."

She touched the base again and lowered the vibrations a little. The shrill vibration became a duller hum.

"There," Elizabeth said. "I think we'll start you off with a lower setting."

Neal raised up onto his knees. The vibrator shifted inside him, rubbing against his prostate. When he turned to face Elizabeth again, she squeezed his shoulders and gave him a peck on the cheek.

"You're going to be great tonight," she said. Looking over her shoulder, she called out, "You can come in now!"

The bedroom door opened. Peter leaned in the doorway, holding a bottle of beer. His shirt was unbuttoned, revealing the t-shirt he wore underneath. He grinned at the sight of Neal.

"Oh," he said, chuckling, "you weren't kidding when you said you had a present. What's that buzzing?"

"A vibrator. To help put him in the mood."

"Looks like it's working."

Neal's face reddened. 

Elizabeth got off the bed. She walked over to Peter and kissed him on the lips. "I'm going to run downstairs. Yell if you need me."

"You're leaving?" Peter asked, frowning.

She ran a finger down Peter's chest. "Oh, I'll be back. In the meantime, I'll let you check out your present."

She took his beer bottle for him and left the room, closing the door behind her. For a minute, Peter continued to stand where he was. He crossed his arms and appraised Neal with a grin.

"El really got you trussed up, huh? I like it." He walked over to the nightstand and picked up the cuffs. "These look handy."

Neal was silent. His nipples ached, and the vibrator...hell, he didn't know what to make of the vibrator, except that his dick was getting hard. Of course, Peter could see everything. There was no hiding his erection, or his face.

Peter put down the cuffs and sat on the bed.

"You're in trouble now, aren't you?" he said.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Yeah you do. You've got El convinced that you can be cooperative in bed. Now you'd better prove her right or she might catch on to your little act."

Neal didn't respond. Peter continued.

"But you know, we both want the same thing, here."

Neal looked up in Peter's eyes. "Oh, yeah?"

Peter reached out and stroked Neal's chest. He gave the silver chain a small tug, eliciting a gasp.

"I don't want to hurt you. I want to fuck someone who acts like he wants to be here. And even though I know you'd love to lie here like log, or tighten up, or do whatever else you can think of to make this difficult, you don't really want that."

Neal gave him a bitter smile. "Then what _do_ I want?" 

"You put up a good front, but I can tell you're nervous. It's all right. I know my dick is bigger than those plugs we've been using. I thought I was doing you a favor by waiting, but maybe I just made it harder. Maybe I should've broken you in right away. But it doesn't matter. This is inevitable, so let's make it easy. You're supposed to be a damn good conman, so put a smile on your face and show some enthusiasm for once."

Neal swallowed and considered what Peter had said. There were only a couple ways to keep his dignity: resisting, and making the most of it. He'd been trying to resist, but resisting and failing brought its own special brand of shame.

There was really only one other option now.

Smiling, Neal placed his palm on Peter's chest. "Like this?"

"Yeah, something like that."

Peter looked so damn pleased with himself that Neal felt like slapping the smug look off his face.

Peter touched the ribbon on Neal's collar. "Nice touch," he said. He hooked a finger around the chain connected to the nipple clamps and tugged. 

Neal winced and, to spare his poor nipples, let himself be pulled closer. One of the clamps slipped off, causing a sharp sting that quickly faded into a dull burn. Peter pulled off the other clamp and set the chain on the dresser. The "leash" was no longer needed—Neal's body was only a couple inches from Peter, well within reach.

Peter cupped Neal's cheeks and kissed him. When he felt Peter's tongue against his lips, Neal parted them. For the first time, he kissed Peter back. He slipped his tongue into Peter's mouth. Peter tasted of alcohol. The overwhelming reality of what he was doing almost overtook Neal, but he kept his lips against Peter's and pressed his hips against Peter's groin.

It was Peter who broke off the kiss, and Neal's shoulders sank in temporary relief.

Peter wrapped his arms around Neal. "Don't worry," he said. "I'm going to make this feel good, and you'll see it's not so bad. Besides, getting fucked should be right up your alley—you don't have to _do_ anything. You just spread your legs. I hope that wine got you loosened up."

So that was why they'd let him have the wine. Neal was prepared to comment on the obvious manipulation, but looking into Peter's eyes, he saw a crack in his facade. His gaze was hopeful and tentative, as though he really did want Neal to enjoy himself.

Peter liked to present himself as a stern master, but a stern master would just fuck his slave. Peter clearly had some hopes that this would be mutually enjoyable, even if he was prepared for something less. He wondered if Peter even understood his own feelings and motivations sometimes. He seemed torn between viewing Neal as a slave and recognizing that he was still a person whose opinions mattered.

"Turn around," Peter said, softly.

Neal did, and he quickly found himself in the same position that Elizabeth had put him in not long prior, with his head on the bed and his ass in the air. Peter turned off the vibrator and pulled it out. Neal sighed with relief.

Peter set the vibrator aside and stood up. He started to strip off his clothes, and Neal turned over and leaned against the pillows, watching him.

When Peter took off his pants, Neal saw that he was hard. Hell, he'd probably gotten a head start out in the hall.

Now that Peter wasn't touching him, Neal started to think again. Seeing Peter's arousal made him reconsider acquiescing. Maybe there was another way....

Peter returned to the bed, and as soon as he sat down, Neal bent over and took Peter's cock in his mouth. Peter jumped and made a surprised sound. Neal was not known for his enthusiastic blow jobs, but if enthusiasm was what Peter wanted, Neal would muster some up. With luck, maybe it would end things early, before Peter could do anything else with his dick.

Neal thrust Peter's cock in and out of his mouth. His neck ached from the awkward angle, but he was determined not to stop. Perhaps he was moving too fast; Peter always preferred a gentle build-up. But it was worth the risk.

Peter clenched Neal's hair in his fist and moaned. He started to grind his hips against Neal's face, thrusting his cock even deeper down Neal's throat.

But suddenly, Peter pushed him away. His cock was firm and glistened with saliva. Neal wiped some spit and pre-come off his chin.

"Didn't you like that?" he asked. He cleared his throat.

"It was great," Peter said with a breathy chuckle. "Best blowjob you've given. But if you kept it up, I would've come in your mouth instead of your ass. Don't want that."

Neal reached for Peter's cock, intending to stroke it, but Peter slapped his hand away.

"I mean it," he said, narrowing his eyes. "I don't want any more foreplay."

Neal watched, dejected, as Peter reached for the bottle of lube. He'd known, really, that stalling was pointless.

"Lie down," Peter said.

Neal lay back and rested his head against the pillow. Peter had him bend his legs, and then he nudged them apart at the knees. He slipped two lubed fingers into Neal's already slick hole. With his other hand, he jerked Neal's cock.

Neal squirmed. Peter was fucking him with his fingers, and it was hard not to get more aroused. He hated that Peter could see the flush in his cheeks and the hardness of his cock, and it was a relief when Peter pulled his fingers out and slapped Neal's thigh, saying, "All right, turn over."

As Neal shifted onto his knees, he looked at Peter's dick and said, "Aren't you going to use a condom? I don't want you to come in me...."

That earned him another slap on the thigh.

"I'll come wherever I please. In fact, I think I like the idea of doing it inside that tight ass of yours."

Neal didn't feel like delaying matters by arguing. Besides, if Peter knew how humiliating he found the idea of having come inside him, it would just make things worse. He turned over onto his hands and knees. Peter pushed his chest down to the bed and grasped his hips. Neal was bent at the waist with his knees tucked under his chest and his ass raised high. Peter tapped the inside of Neal's thigh, which Neal interpreted as a signal to spread his legs. He inched his legs apart with a sigh. From this position, he couldn't see what Peter was doing, but he heard the slick sound of Peter lubing himself up.

He felt Peter's cock, large and firm, pressing against him. Peter's fingers dug into Neal's hips and with a firm push, the head of his cock breached Neal's asshole.

Neal bit off a gasp. It didn't hurt, exactly, but it was _big_. So much for the training plugs—there was no way they could have trained him for this. Neal wondered if he should have swallowed his pride and tried the bigger ones, but it was too late now.

He had a hard time registering what was happening. He'd been convinced for so long that this would never actually happen. As much as he'd disliked the plugs, they didn't compare to the humiliation of Peter using his ass as his own personal sex toy. 

Peter was still pushing, easing his cock inside. Neal wondered how much more of it there was. He'd seen plenty of Peter's cock, but it'd never seemed _this_ long. Finally, he felt Peter's pelvis against his buttocks. His pubic hair brushed up against Neal's ass. Peter was fully-seated.

Then he began to thrust.

There was a small twinge of pain. The feeling of being fucked was incredibly foreign, and Neal didn't know what to do about it. He reflexively tightened his muscles to stop the intrusion.

"Relax," Peter said. "Loosen up. You're doing well."

Neal expected to hear annoyance, but Peter's tone was calm and cajoling. 

It wasn't like Neal's tightness was preventing Peter from having his way. Neal knew that some of Peter's books said to hell with the slave's comfort. The only obligation, they said, was to avoid causing injury. Peter must have felt like a great owner for trying to make Neal enjoy himself.

Neal forced himself to relax. To compensate, he clenched his fists in the sheets. As Neal rocked back and forth on the bed, the bow affixed to his collar came loose. He pulled the ribbon off and balled it up in his fist.

After a minute, Peter settled into a rhythm and Neal started to adjust to the thrusting. Despite the earlier shock of it, his cock was still hard. His erection slapped against his stomach. With each thrust, Peter's cock brushed against his prostate.

Neal heard the bedroom door open.

"Having fun?" Elizabeth asked.

"Oh, yeah," Peter said, panting. "He's so tight."

Neal buried his face in the pillow in front of him.

Elizabeth didn't say anything more, and Neal was only aware of her presence by the sound of her footsteps. When the sound stopped, he turned his head and saw her sitting in the chair across the room, watching them. She'd taken off her dress and was in her bra and panties.

As Neal watched, she slipped a hand down the front of her panties and started to stroke herself.

He didn't know if Elizabeth's presence helped or hindered his stubborn erection. As much as he wanted to hold on, the pleasure kept building. With a small grunt, he came on the bed below him. His ass tightened around Peter's cock, and Peter let out a low moan.

As his orgasm faded, Neal shuddered. With the build-up of pleasure gone, it seemed like Peter had been fucking him for a long time. His ass felt raw and tender.

He had no idea if either Peter or Elizabeth had noticed his orgasm. He thought Peter would have made an annoying comment about it if he had.

Suddenly, Peter stopped thrusting. He dug his fingers into Neal's hips and grunted. This was it—Peter was coming inside him. Neal buried his face.

After a few moments, Peter pulled out with a contented sigh. He rubbed Neal's hip.

"There," he murmured. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"No," Neal said softly.

"Yeah, I didn't think so. See? I told you I'd take care of you. You were worried about nothing."

Peter stretched out on his back beside Neal. His face and chest were covered in a sheen of sweat.

Neal felt something wet around his hole, and for a moment he worried that he was bleeding. But he quickly realized that it was come and lube. His legs ached from being spread and he had to close them slowly.

Neal collapsed onto his stomach and immediately regretted it when his come rubbed onto his skin. Before he could compose himself, Elizabeth got up and sat on the edge of the bed by Neal's head. She had taken off her panties. 

She managed to get one of her legs on the other side of Neal's head. He realized what she wanted and crawled closer. She was wet and her clit was engorged from arousal. 

Neal lapped at her clit. Her wetness was tangy against his tongue but not unpleasant. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Peter watching, mesmerized. But even if he enjoyed the sight, he looked too tired to even consider round two.

Neal was too tired and foggy-headed to focus on what he was doing. His headache was getting worse, and now his temples were throbbing. Peter had a point—at least when he was getting fucked, he didn't have to do much.

Even so, it didn't take Neal long to bring Elizabeth to orgasm. She let Neal pull away and slumped back against the pillow.

"Honey?" Elizabeth said after a minute. "Why don't you and Neal get cleaned up? I bet you guys could use a nice, hot shower before bed."

Peter looked like he was ready to fall asleep, but he sat up. "Yep. C'mon, Neal." He gave Neal a pat on the ass.

Neal didn't move. He suddenly wanted a minute to himself. He settled for pressing his forehead against the bed, taking a deep breath, and blinking away a couple tears that sprang to his eyes. If they saw his face now, they would think he was upset, but he wasn't. He didn't know how he felt, but he thought he should feel worse about what had just happened than he did. Instead, he was overwhelmed by a mixture of arousal, embarrassment, defeat, and relief.

"I said c'mon," Peter said. Then, his voice softening, he put a hand on Neal's shoulder and said, "You all right? Not too sore?"

Neal suspected he'd be sore later, but he wasn't now. Hesitantly, he got up onto his knees. Both Peter and Elizabeth looked at the come smeared on his stomach, and then at the spot on the bed.

"I didn't know you came," Peter said, blinking.

"Yeah. Sorry about the mess...."

"Oh, honey," Elizabeth said, "don't be sorry. It's _good_ you enjoyed yourself. That's what we wanted."

She obviously interpreted his hesitance as fear that they would disapprove. Some owners _didn't_ allow their slaves to have orgasms. There was a whole school of thought that it was a way to maintain control over a slave. But Neal knew that Peter and Elizabeth didn't fall into that camp. They were too determined to have him as an active participant in the bedroom.

"Yeah," Peter said, grinning, "it's great. Guess I'm not too bad at this."

Suddenly, Neal knew why he hadn't wanted them to see that he'd come. Of course they would see it as a sign of success. And now Peter was going to see himself as an expert on fucking. The last thing he needed was an ego boost—wasn't it enough that he'd caught Neal and purchased him? Did he have to have control over Neal in this way, too?

"I'll just change the sheets while you guys clean up," Elizabeth said.

Neal got up and followed Peter into the bathroom. In the shower, he stood still and let the water run down his back. He washed himself mechanically and soaped up his chest for at least a couple minutes before Peter took over and ran a soapy washcloth over Neal's body. Neal remained passive. It wasn't meant as defiance—he was simply tired. He didn't even react when Peter washed the crack of his ass, cleaning up lube and traces of come.

Peter played with his collar and gave him a soft bite on the neck. "Tonight was good, wasn't it? I didn't hurt you."

"No, you didn't."

"And you were good. See, this is how it should be. No arguing or conniving. Just you doing your job and us having some fun."

Neal tilted his head, letting the water soak his hair. "Hate to break it to you, but I don't think the three years you spent chasing me were very good foreplay. If you were looking for a bedmate, you could've been more romantic. 'Specially after I sent that champagne to your surveillance van."

"Oh yeah, that was very clever of you. No, I'm just saying that just because I'm your master doesn't mean this has to be a battle. I mean, I guess I like you. I wouldn't have bought you if I didn't."

"How flattering."

When they were done, Peter took Neal by the arm and led him, still naked, back to the master bedroom. Elizabeth had changed the sheets and was lounging on the bed in an oversized pajama top. She'd laid out Peter's pajamas and a pair of Neal's boxers.

"You're going to sleep with us tonight," Elizabeth said to Neal.

He pulled on his boxers and didn't argue. Despite his earlier desire for some time alone, he wasn't sure if he would like spending the night alone with his thoughts.

He lay down in the middle of the bed and Peter and Elizabeth leaned over him to kiss.

"I hope you liked your present," Elizabeth said.

"It was the best, Hon."

Neal expected to have trouble sleeping, but he didn't. Sex had always made him sleepy, but tonight he was truly exhausted. 

The next day, he was stiff and sore. He was tempted to complain, to tell Peter (or, better yet, Elizabeth) that getting fucked had hurt. But that would be a twist of the truth, at best—his ass was only a little tender. It was his legs that ached the worst, from being spread in a way they weren't used to.

He stretched as he got ready in the morning. He knew his muscles would get used to it eventually, whether he liked it or not.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neal goes to work with Elizabeth.

A few days later, New York had its first real snow of the winter. Both Peter and Elizabeth decided to try to work from home, and as soon as Neal got up, Peter handed him an old pair of snow boots.

"C'mon," Peter said, "let's get the front walk shoveled."

"Are those your boots? We don't wear the same size."

"Just give 'em a try," Peter said with a grin. "You only need them for a little bit."

The boots were tight, but they were wearable. Soon, Neal was also wearing one of Peter's old coats, Peter's old hat and gloves, and Elizabeth's scarf. 

Peter was remarkably chipper for a man who had to shovel his front walk. Perhaps knowing he had a slave to help him raised his spirits, or perhaps he'd never lost his childhood appreciation for snow.

Peter took the big shovel and worked on the path leading to the sidewalk, while Neal took a smaller one and worked on the front steps.

After fifteen minutes, Neal was starting to get winded. He set his shovel down and leaned against the railing.

"What?" Peter asked. He lifted a gloved hand to shield his eyes from the sun. "Getting tired? Guess you didn't have to use as many muscles for breaking into museums."

" _Allegedly,_ " Neal said. "I don't think I've done any shoveling since I was a teenager."

"Huh," Peter said, as though this information was genuinely interesting.

Neal took a deep breath of the crisp winter air and returned to work. He looked up and down the street, and had to admit that snow at least looked nice. It was still clean and unmarred.

A minute later, Peter said, "Not a whole lot of information about when you were younger. In fact, it's like you didn't exist before you turned eighteen."

"And finding out I used to shovel snow is a big breakthrough?"

"I just can't help but be curious. I mean, we don't even have any record of a high school diploma."

"You wouldn't. I didn't graduate."

Peter gave him an inquisitive look, and Neal shrugged.

"I wasn't the scholarly type."

He could tell Peter wanted more details, but Neal liked having a few secrets. Peter knew enough about him. And there was too much about his past that he didn't want to get into.

When they'd gotten the front path mostly cleared, Elizabeth poked her head out the front door and said, "When you guys finish, I've got some hot cocoa for you."

The warm house was inviting. Neal didn't realize how cold his nose had gotten until he was back inside. He and Peter took off their boots and left them by the door. Satchmo came over and sniffed at a chunk of snow that was still stuck to one of the boots.

Neal's feet were cold and clammy. After Elizabeth handed him his cocoa, he sat down on the living room floor and rubbed his feet with his free hand. He wiggled this frozen toes to bring some life back to them. When the numbness began to fade, they ached from being cramped in Peter's boots.

"The insulation isn't great in those old boots," Peter said. "We'll have to invest in a new pair for you."

Peter may not have cared about how ridiculous Neal looked in his cast-offs, but at least he cared about the practical aspects.

Elizabeth joined them in the living room with her own mug of cocoa.

"So," Elizabeth said, "you bring anything interesting home?" She nodded at the files Peter had stacked on the coffee table.

"Oh, you know how it is. No new leads on that Met case, but I want to look over some witness statements again. And I have to look at these mortgage fraud cases came up."

"Well, I know you'll find a lead. Maybe Neal can help."

"Yeah, maybe."

After she finished her cocoa, Elizabeth went upstairs to work on her laptop from the comfort of bed. Peter turned on a basketball game on TV and opened the file on top of the stack.

He hadn't solicited Neal's help, so Neal assumed he was off the clock for the moment. He went upstairs to get his sketchbook and pencils.

Since his arrival at the Burkes' house, he'd spent a lot of his free time alone in his room. He was finally starting to get lonely. As much as he savored some peace and quiet, there was a fine line between solitude and isolation. He brought his sketchbook down to the living room. He started to sit on the floor when Peter looked up.

"Hey, why don't you join me?"

Neal hid his surprise and sat beside Peter on the sofa. The finger-shaped bruises on Neal's hips were fading to a jaundiced yellow, and now the only lingering aftereffect of being fucked was Peter's unusual friendliness toward him. He didn't get mad yesterday morning when Neal finished the coffee before Peter was done, and he even let Neal turn on an opera performance on PBS the other night. Well, for a half hour, at least.

He wondered if part of Peter felt guilty. More likely, he was just a good mood from getting what he wanted. He hated to think that Peter believed he'd "won." Peter was insufferable when he did. But it put him in a good mood.

While Peter watched the game and studied the file on his lap (how Peter managed to multitask was a mystery), Neal did his best to block out the game. He started to sketch. He was working on a rough replica of a drawing by Degas that he'd always admired. 

Eventually, he realized that Peter was watching him, but he ignored it.

"You know," Peter said after a while, "you should draw more of your own stuff. You're not bad."

Neal kept sketching, ignoring him at first. Then he froze. "You've gone through my sketchbook?"

"I've taken a couple peeks."

Of course he had. Neal was abstractly aware that he shouldn't consider any of his sketches private. That was why he never sketched Mozzie or Alex, or anyone else Peter didn't already know about.

Still, it was nice to maintain the illusion of privacy.

"Anyway," Peter said, "I'm just saying—forgery got you into this whole mess in the first place. Maybe you should focus your talent on something else."

"I wouldn't mind focusing my talent on painting," he said hopefully.

Peter smirked. "I'm sure you wouldn't. Too bad paint is expensive."

Neal didn't respond. He roughly turned to a blank page. If his Degas wasn't appreciated here, he'd work on it later in peace.

He thought for a moment, and then began to sketch a portrait of Peter. His subject was sitting right next to him, after all.

It wasn't until a commercial came on that Peter noticed what Neal was drawing.

"Hey," he said, smiling, "that's not bad. How do you draw so fast, anyway?"

"Just takes practice."

"I'm sure it's very useful for a forger."

"Alleged."

He added some finishing touches to the portrait and set his pencil aside. He gently tore the page out of his sketchbook and handed it Peter. "Here, you want it?"

Peter raised his eyebrows. "You sure? You don't want to keep it?"

Right, like Neal was going to hang it up on his bedroom wall.

"No, I want you to have it."

Peter took it with a smile and set it aside. "Thank you. I'll hang onto it. Never had anyone draw my portrait before."

Neal hadn't expected Peter to treat it like some sort of gift. But maybe it would make Peter more inclined to give Neal what he wanted the next time he asked.

Neal set his sketching supplies on the coffee table and sat back. Peter took the opportunity to put an arm around his shoulders.

"By the way, how have you been feeling?" he asked. "I didn't wear you out too much last weekend, did I?"

"My ass is fine, thank you."

Peter rubbed his back with a hypnotic circular motion. If he heard the terseness in Neal's voice, he chose to ignore it. "Good to hear. I know it was an intense night for you. I thought maybe it was a little much for you to take in."

Neal didn't respond. What did Peter want from him? Reassurance?

"But you really got into it," Peter said with a grin, "didn't you?"

"Last I heard, you only wanted to hear enthusiasm from me. So I guess you already know the answer to that."

"Oh, you know what I meant by that. I did try to make it good for you—didn't think you'd come that easily, though. That was impressive."

"Beginner's luck," he muttered.

"But," Peter said, his smile fading, "we have to be realistic. Of course, it's for the best if you like it. But it's still your job. Sometimes you're not going to be into it, but it has to be done, just like your other chores. I love my job, but do you think I feel like looking at these files today? No, I'd rather focus on the game. But you don't see me complaining about it, do you?"

"Come on, Peter, it's not the same," Neal said.

"Close enough."

Neal was pretty sure Peter would feel differently if _he_ was the slave. Then again, Peter liked to believe in his precious philosophy about justice so much that maybe he'd accept enslavement. Maybe he'd actually be the model slave he kept pushing Neal to be. Neal doubted it, but it was possible.

Peter gave his shoulders a squeeze. "Remember, just because you're a slave doesn't mean you don't have any control over how these next few years go. Your attitude is going to make a big difference."

Neal could do without the pep talk, but he didn't say anything. Peter removed his arm from around his shoulders and gave him a nudge.

"Hey," Peter said, "you want to look at these files with me? I could use your thoughts."

Neal angled his body toward Peter. Peter handed him the top file, and Neal flipped it open.

A small part of him wondered if it was wrong to help Peter. After all, if he helped Peter solve the case, it might lead to some other criminals suffering the same fate Neal had been given. But Neal was low on sympathy for anyone outside his own small circle. It wasn't like most criminals gave a crap about him.

Still, he had to respect someone who could pull off a job at the Met.

He went over the files with Peter until after lunch, and worked on the laundry and cleaning until dinner.

That night, when he was in his room, he lay in bed and looked at the closet door. He deliberated for a few minutes, and listened for any sounds out in the hall. He could just hear the faucet running in the bathtub downstairs. Elizabeth must have decided to take a bath before bed.

Slowly, and with more trepidation than enthusiasm, Neal got up and walked over to the closet. He opened the door and got out the box of plugs and the bottle of lube.

He'd resisted this, but Neal always did his research. When it came down to it, this was no different. It was just another skill he could learn and perfect. And part of him was curious.

Peter would never have to know.

Neal sat on the bed and opened the box. After a moment of deliberation, he picked out the second to largest plug. It wasn't as long as Peter's dick, but it was almost as wide. If Peter had been the one handling the plugs, Neal would have argued with the selection. But it was easier to be at the mercy of his own hand.

He lay back on the bed and took off his pajama bottoms. Slowly, he spread his legs and bent his knees. He spread some lube on a couple fingers and reached between his legs. He felt around and pushed his index finger into his hole. His ass was warm and tight around it, but there was little resistance. When there was no pain, he pressed in more. When he crooked his finger, he found a raised spot that must have been his prostate. Deciding to experiment, he slid his finger in and out.

After a minute, he added another finger. His ass stretched uncomfortably to accommodate it, and Neal winced. He took a deep breath and forced his muscles to relax.

Fingering himself was more hypnotic than arousing. He found himself transfixed by the slickness and tightness of his ass. Nevertheless, the persistent pressure on his prostate made his cock start to swell.

He kept it up until his fingers tired. Slowly, he removed them. He lubed up the plug and positioned the tip against his hole. Before he could change his mind, he pushed it in.

The plug was thicker than his fingers. When the widest point breached him, he didn't think his ass could stretch any more. But he'd gotten himself lubed and relaxed, and that was all he needed. He guided the plug in carefully and slowly, and after a minute it was fully-seated.

He didn't know what he was supposed to do now. When Peter used a plug on him, sometimes he would tease it in and out of his hole. But mostly, he would make Neal wear it while giving a blow job.

This plug felt too big to twist or thrust, but Neal gave it a try. Thanks to the lube, it moved smoothly. He pressed down on the base of the plug, pushing the plug against his prostate.

It felt...rather good.

It had never occurred to Neal that part of the problem was Peter's technique. But the plug felt much better when it was in Neal's control. When Peter used the plugs or fingered Neal, he always moved a little too fast.

Still, Neal didn't want to overdo it. After a minute, he eased the plug out of his ass and set it aside.

Now, he could focus on his erection.

He squirted a little lube on his palm and started jerking his cock. Like many of his masturbation sessions, it seemed frustrating and futile. He was torn between the physical desire for an orgasm and the claustrophobic reality of where he was. He tried to hone in on thoughts of Kate, but his memories of her were like a moving target. He worked his dick quickly, wanting to come before the mood left him entirely.

Physical effort almost always yielded a result. After what felt like an eternity, Neal squeezed his eyes shut and felt the come shoot onto his stomach. His softening cock was tender from the furious stroking, and Neal knew he'd be taking a break for a couple days.

He lay on the bed for a minute to catch his breath. Then, he got up and pulled his pajama bottoms on. Taking the plug with him, he ventured out into the hall. He peered over the bannister. The bathroom door was open, and the light was off. Elizabeth was done with her bath. Neal sprinted downstairs and into the bathroom before either she or Peter could intercept him.

He washed off the plug and then cleaned himself up. He grabbed a few squares of toilet paper to wipe off the residual lube.

The plugs weren't so bad. Maybe he would try it again. He just had to make sure Peter didn't notice, or he would be unbearably smug.

 

* * *

 

With Christmas approaching, Elizabeth was booked with parties. Neal wished he could help her with the planning, but by this point, everything had already been ordered.

But the following Monday, Elizabeth started to take Neal with her to her office in Manhattan. Neal made a token effort of hiding his enthusiasm, but it must have shown through. During the drive into Manhattan, Elizabeth glanced over at him and smiled.

"If I knew this would be such a big deal for you, I would've started taking you to work sooner."

Neal didn't try to deny it. The Burkes' house was perfectly comfortable, but being confined to such a small space had started getting old a long time ago. Just being in Manhattan made him feel more alive.

"Why didn't you?" he asked her. "You must have known I have some experience with parties."

Elizabeth shrugged. "Before we bought you, Peter and I agreed to wait and see. We didn't think he'd be using you with his work, and Peter was concerned that being near my clients might be tempting for you. But if he's going to enlist your help with _his_ job, you can help me pick out caviar."

When they arrived, Neal stood to the side while Elizabeth unlocked the door.

"Is it just us today?" he asked.

"Mm-hm. My assistant isn't working today. It should be quiet. I've got some clients coming at one to talk about wedding plans."

After he put on a pot of coffee, Elizabeth put him to work tracking orders. That kept him busy until almost eleven, and then he discovered that there wasn't a lot for him to do.

"Just hang tight," Elizabeth said with a sympathetic smile. "I'm sure I'll have some work for you in a bit."

Neal slipped into the back room and entertained himself by looking at the boxes of caviar, wine, and champagne that Elizabeth had back there. Another box contained two hundred white linen napkins. He took one out and rubbed the soft fabric between his thumb and forefinger before carefully folding it back up in the box.

When he'd looked at all the boxes, he wandered back out into the main part of the office. There were a sofa and chairs by the front door, and on the coffee table was a selection of magazines. Neal sat on the sofa and shifted through the magazines, looking for something to entertain himself with.

There were several wedding and food magazines. Neal flipped through a few of them before setting them aside. Toward the bottom of the pile, he came across a copy of _Master & Slave_ magazine.

He held it up for Elizabeth to see. Raising his eyebrows, he said, "Interesting choice of reading material."

She was sitting at a desk several feet away, writing an e-mail. Looking over her shoulder, she said, "A lot of my clients are slave owners. And sometimes there are good articles about parties."

The cover boasted headlines such as "Tips and Tricks for Traveling with Slaves" and "Over 20 pages of the latest collar designs!"

It was a thick, glossy magazine, the type that Peter would probably disapprove of. Peter had little tolerance for mixing luxury and slavery. Neal flipped through the pages of designer collars with limited interest. The collars were as close to luxurious as collars could be. Some were adorned with diamonds as well as equipped with the latest state-of-the-art GPS tracking chips, and Neal suspected they cost more than the Burkes' wedding rings combined. Still, a collar was a collar, and even precious stones couldn't make Neal see them as anything but restrictive.

He read the travel article with more interest, in hopes that it would discuss international travel. But it only said what he already knew: taking a slave out of the country was difficult, and required authorization. Instead, the article made recommendations about leaving slaves at home or in a kennel.

Neal wasn't surprised. Technically, the government retained rights over all slaves that were sold. And the DOJ was unwilling to risk letting its felons out of the country, no matter how much wealthy slave owners wanted to bring their personal servants with them on vacation. The official reason was that there was too much risk of slaves being abducted and sold on the black market. In reality, everyone knew the bigger risk was a slave seeking sanctuary in a non-slave country.

Neal had thought about it. It was hard not to. If he couldn't get his collar off, he could find a way for Mozzie to impersonate his master. Once he got overseas, he could find a way to escape for good.

But getting the collar off would probably be easier.

Regardless, it was all intellectual. He never stopped daydreaming of escape, but he believed less and less that it would ever happen.

The magazine also contained a bonus booklet titled "101 Holiday Gift Ideas for Slaves." Glancing at it, Neal quickly realized that the ideas were for gifts from slaves to their masters.

Neal had no idea if he was expected to give the Burkes anything for Christmas. It wasn't as though he could go out and buy them anything. He looked at the ideas in the booklet, but too many of them involved giving massages or manicures.

He supposed he could always just cook them a nice dessert.

His reading was interrupted when Elizabeth said, "Neal, would you mind doing me a favor?"

Neal set the magazine down. "What do you need?"

She picked up her purse and pulled out her wallet. She got a twenty dollar bill.

"There's a bakery at the end of the block. Can you run down there and buy some cookies? I want to have some for my clients. It might encourage them to try that bakery when it comes time for cake tasting."

Neal got up and tried not to look too interested by what she was proposing. He'd never been allowed to handle money, let alone unaccompanied.

"No problem," he said.

"How about a dozen? I'm thinking four chocolate chip, four sugar, and four red velvet. They have the _best_ red velvet-flavored cookies."

She handed Neal the money and he put it in his pocket.

"Got it. Be right back."

"Tell Mary I sent you. And oh, make sure to get a receipt."

She said it casually, but Neal knew what she meant: she would double-check the amount he spent. If it had been Peter, Neal would have said something about the lack of trust. But this was Elizabeth, and he wanted to be a good sport.

He'd been getting tired, but as he walked down the street, he had a burst of renewed energy. The cold wind certainly helped jolt him awake.

When he entered the bakery, there was only one other customer ahead of him. When the man left, Neal walked up to the register. The woman behind the counter, whose nametag said 'Mary,' gave him a smile.

Returning the smile, he said, "Hi, Elizabeth Burke sent me. She'd like some cookies."

"Oh, of course. What will it be?"

Neal recited the order, and Mary went over to the glass case where the cookies were arranged on plates. There was a door behind the counter that led to the kitchen, and in the window, Neal could see a young woman with a slave collar using a mixer.

"You must be Elizabeth's new slave," Mary said. "She mentioned you the last time she was in here."

From her cheerful tone, Neal assumed Elizabeth had said good things.

"That would be me," Neal said. "I'm just helping out today."

"Well, I'm sure she appreciates it."

Neal paid for the cookies, and before he could request one, Mary gave him a receipt along with the change.

Neal didn't rush the walk back to Elizabeth's office. The only thing that kept him from dawdling was the hope that this excursion would lead to other, longer ones in the future. Taking too long wouldn't endear him to Elizabeth.

When he returned, Elizabeth had gotten out a tray for the cookies.

"Do you mind laying them out on the coffee table?" she said.

As he began to arrange the cookies on the tray, he watched Elizabeth out of the corner of his eye. She put the change and receipt in her purse without double-checking the amount. He wondered if she would count it later.

At one o'clock, Elizabeth's clients arrived. So he could stick around and listen, Neal made himself look busy by straightening up Elizabeth's desk. When he grew bored with the meeting, and ran out of pretexts to stick around, he retreated into the back room until he heard the clients leaving.

When he emerged, Elizabeth was putting the remaining cookies in a plastic bag. When she saw him, she smiled and offered him one.

Neal chose one of the red velvet cookies. After swallowing down a bite, he said, "Should I plan on coming here tomorrow?"

"Actually, I was thinking of leaving you home tomorrow so you can take care of some housework. On Wednesday, you'll go to work with Peter."

Neal received this news with some ambivalence. He'd enjoyed coming to work with Elizabeth, and had hoped this new duty would spare him from some of the chores he usually had to do. And as much as he looked forward to going back to the FBI, he suspected it would be much less relaxed than today was.

She must have noticed something in his expression, because she said, "I'm not even coming down here tomorrow, myself. I have to check out some venues with a client, and there isn't much you could do. But I'm having some invitations shipped to the house tomorrow, and it'll be a big help to have you home to receive them."

It was obvious she was just trying to make him feel better, but he appreciated it.

They only stayed another half hour before heading home. On the way back, Elizabeth stopped for coffee and let Neal choose whatever he wanted.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neal goes to work with Peter.

On Wednesday, Peter insisted on using the leash again. He led Neal inside the federal building, but instead of taking him to the elevator, they stopped at the front security desk.

"Agent Burke," he said. "I ordered a tag for him." He jerked his thumb back, indicating Neal.

"Wait," Neal said, "what's a tag?"

Peter ignored him. The security guard rifled through a drawer and pulled out something looked a bit like a luggage tag. He double-checked the information printed on it and handed it to Peter.

"There you go."

Peter grabbed Neal's collar and looped the tag around it. It was made of thin white plastic, but it fastened securely, like a hospital bracelet. It would need to be cut off.

"What is this thing?" Neal asked.

Peter unclipped the leash. While he put it in his briefcase, Neal lifted up the tag and strained his eyes downward in an attempt to read the tag. All he could make out was Peter's name and his own slave ID number.

"That's a slave tag," Peter said. "We put them on slaves who come in here, so they can be identified quickly."

"Seriously? This thing tickles."

"It's either that, or I can chain you to my desk. Or, I can let you move freely around the building, at your own risk."

"Yeah, you could," Neal said, waiting for the catch.

"And then, when someone notices an unidentified slave wandering around, they'll stick you in a cage until they locate me."

"I guess I'll take the tag."

Peter slapped him on the back. "Thought so. But hey, maybe we can go without it after everyone gets to know you more. For now, let's just play things by the book."

The implication that Peter was just trying to keep the higher-ups happy eased Neal's annoyance. If Peter was _supposed_ to tag him, Neal could play along.

As they rode up in the elevator, Neal tried again to read the tag.

"What does this thing say, anyway?" he asked.

"It gives your name and ID number, and the name of the agent who brought you in. That would be me."

"Why do you need tag slaves? How many slaves do you guys deal with?"

"Occasionally, we have to bring a slave in as part of an investigation."

Suddenly, Neal realized what the tag reminded him of. It was an _evidence_ tag.

Before he could remark on that, they reached their floor. Neal followed Peter into the white collar division offices. Several of the agents paused to look at Neal as he walked past. Obviously, seeing a slave around the office was still a novel experience. Despite the precaution of the tag, Neal suspected everyone already knew that he was Peter's. Enough of them had seen him when he was there the last time, and gossip always traveled fast in an office.

Neal followed Peter to his office and plopped down in one of the chairs in front of the desk.

"So," he asked. "What do I do now?"

"I'm going to have you look over some old case files, see if you can find anything we missed. Diana will get some for you."

"Diana. She's your probie, right?"

"That's right. And when I'm not around, you'll listen to her. Is that clear?"

"Crystal."

But at the moment, there wasn't anything to do. He picked up a rubber band ball off Peter's desk and slumped back in his chair. He played with that while Peter typed away on the computer.

After what felt like an eternity, Diana stuck her head in the door. Neal recognized her from the last time he came to the office.

"I've got those files for Caffrey, Boss," she said. "They're in the boardroom."

"Great," Peter said. "Thanks." Looking at Neal, he said, "You can go in the boardroom to look the files over."

"What am I looking for, exactly?"

"Anything you think will help."

Neal stood up and tossed the rubber band ball back on the desk. He went next door to the boardroom, where he found a considerable pile of files sitting on the table.

This was going to take a while. He just hoped they were interesting cases.

He sat down facing the windows that looked out over the bullpen. From this perspective, he couldn't see much. But he could make out some heads looking in his direction.

As he delved into the files, he discovered that most of them were the opposite of interesting. He'd never realized how many mortgage fraud cases there were. No wonder Peter was so enamored with him—if these cases made up the bulk of Peter's caseload, the man must have been desperate for a good art theft or forgery.

He'd been at it for over an hour when his eyes started to glaze over. He was resting his chin on his hand when Peter came in.

"How's it going?"

Looking up, Neal said, "You know, when you said I'd be helping you solve cases, I expected something more exciting."

"Tough. Are you making any progress?"

"The pile is getting shorter." He fiddled with his collar and rubbed at the skin underneath.

"I know you don't like that tag," Peter said. "I'll ask Hughes if you might be able to go without it."

"Oh, it's not just that. I slept on my collar wrong last night. Now my neck is sore."

Peter clicked his tongue sympathetically. "Anyway, I wanted to tell you that a warrant I've been waiting on just came through, so I have to head out for a while. Diana's going to stay here—if you need anything, let her know."

"Wait, can I come with you? A warrant sounds exciting."

"No, we don't need you tagging along. You just keep doing your work. I can't wait to hear what you come up with."

As Peter left, Neal sat back in his chair with a frown. It figured he'd get left out the minute something interesting happened.

He waited a few minutes for Peter to leave, and then got up from the table and ventured out of the room.

Diana was at her desk. Neal breezed past her and walked over to the coffee machine. At home, coffee was usually a reward for doing his chores. But Peter hadn't said anything about at the office.

He poured himself a cup and stirred in some powdered creamer. As he stirred it with a plastic coffee stirrer, he wandered over to Diana's desk. He leaned on the empty desk in front of her.

"So," he said, "you're Peter's probie."

She looked up from the file she was studying. "That's right. I thought Peter gave you some work to do."

Neal held up his cup. "Coffee break. I'm entitled to stretch my legs, right?" He took a sip of the coffee and felt himself cringe involuntarily. "Is the coffee always this bad?"

Diana smirked. "It's an acquired taste."

"So, Peter said he got a warrant he was waiting for. Big case?"

"Some counterfeit gemstones popped up last week. We were able to trace them, and we finally got enough for a warrant."

"Sounds exciting. Bet you hate being stuck here."

"Oh, I see plenty of action."

Neal looked around. He didn't know any of the other agents. Jones had been there earlier, but he wasn't anymore. He must have gone with Peter.

"Hey," Neal said, "I don't suppose there's any way I could get a snack around here, is there?"

"Actually, Peter did leave me a few dollars in case you wanted to get something from the vending machine."

That was easier than he'd expected. Diana got a few dollar bills out of the top desk drawer and handed them over.

"He said to bring back any change," she said.

The vending machines were located by the restrooms, out of the line of sight of the agents in the bullpen. Neal got himself a granola bar and put it in his pocket.

Also by the restrooms was a door leading to a stairwell. He wondered how much time he had before Diana came looking for him. Somehow, he doubted that she'd be too quick to assume he was just in the bathroom.

And while Neal was in good shape, running down twenty-one floors and then up again was going to take some time.

He had a small envelope in his pocket, containing a letter for Kate. He'd stolen the envelope and stamp from the Burkes the other day, but hadn't had an opportunity to mail the letter. He needed to get to a mailbox. There was one a few blocks from the Burkes' house, but Elizabeth had been home most of the day yesterday, and didn't want him to take Satchmo out in the snow for too long. There was a mailbox not far from the federal building, but Neal needed more time than he had.

Discouraged, Neal headed back. He'd have to wait until he got a better chance. He dropped off the change at Diana's desk and headed up to the boardroom.

While he trudged through more and more files, he ate his granola bar and drank the barely-edible coffee.

He felt like he'd gone over a hundred cases, though it was closer to ten. He was starting to have a hard time keeping them apart in his mind.

But then, at last, he spotted something. It was a check fraud case, and he was studying the forged checks when he noticed a pattern in the dates on them. If he showed Peter, it might lead to something.

He was still smiling at himself over his success when he looked up and saw Peter coming through the door. As Peter jogged up the stairs, Neal got up and stuck his head out the door.

"Hey, Peter, I've got something you."

"It'll have to wait. Show it to me later."

Peter disappeared into Hughes' office, and Neal went back to his chair.

Now he wished he hadn't even bothered. He pushed the remaining files aside and leaned back. He was rocking his chair back and forth when, a few minutes later, he saw Jones and another agent lead a cuffed man off the elevator. The man was wearing a slave collar.

The agents led him down the hall, in the direction of the interrogation rooms, and a few minutes later Peter and Hughes emerged from the office and went in the same direction.

Something was going on. Neal got up and wandered back down to Diana's desk.

"What's with the slave they just brought in?" he asked.

She looked up at him. "Peter arrested the man who was selling the forged gemstones. He was making his slave create the forgeries. Peter's hoping the slave will cooperate."

"What's going to happen to him?"

"Don't know. We'll probably keep him here for a few days. We have holding cells. Then we'll send him to the city jail or a slave holding facility. It'll be up to the state to decide if he can be resold, or if he'll need to be held until after the trial is over."

Neal frowned. "He's not being charged for the gemstones?"

"Probably not. Diminished responsibility. His master was calling the shots."

Neal had heard about plots to buy slaves to use as accomplices in crimes. It made sense, but he'd never known anyone stupid enough to actually try it. The state ran background checks on buyers, and tracked purchases. Most criminals weren't gutsy enough to expose themselves like that.

He went back up to the boardroom and pretended to look through another file. He'd set the check fraud file to the side, ready to show Peter when he had time.

A half hour later, he looked up and saw both Peter and Hughes heading his way. He expected them to go into one of the offices but instead, they came into the boardroom. Neal sat up straighter.

"Neal," Peter said, "we need your help on something."

Neal glanced at Hughes and then focused his gaze on Peter. Smiling, he said, "Let me know how I can be of service."

"We've brought in a slave who's implicated in a gem forgery case," Peter said. "His master—"

"Was making him create forgeries. I've picked up the basics."

Peter raised his eyebrows, but continued. "We're sure his master forced him into it, but he doesn't want to cooperate."

Neal shrugged. "So, where do I come in?"

Hughes spoke up. "We want you to talk to him, slave to slave. Convince him that he'll be rewarded if he does the right thing here."

"Will he?"

"What?" Peter asked.

"Will he be rewarded? If I'm going to lie, I'd like to know."

"If he gives us valuable information," Hughes said, "we'll be willing to negotiate something. He can expect to get some time taken off his sentence."

"It's that simple? It doesn't matter that he made the forgeries?"

"His master took advantage of him and the system," Peter said. "He wasn't being treated well. If he helps us, we can help him."

Neal stood up. "I'll see what I can do."

Peter and Hughes led Neal down to the interrogation room. Neal peered through the window at the man sitting at the table. They'd uncuffed his hands, and he was resting them on the table. His hair was shorn short, and looked like someone had cut it haphazardly with some clippers.

"What's his name?" Neal asked.

"Trevor Wilkins," Peter said. "He's four years into a seven year sentence for making and selling forged gemstones."

Hughes unlocked the door and let Neal in. Trevor looked up at him.

Leaning against the table, Neal extended his hand and said, "I'm Neal Caffrey." He glanced at the window, but all he could see were their own reflections. But he knew Peter and Hughes were watching—and listening—on the other side.

"What? They're sending a slave in now? Like I'm more likely to listen to you?"

"You know, you really should cooperate with them. You scratch their backs, they'll scratch yours."

Trevor scoffed. "Do you really think they care about me? Nobody cared about us when we got auctioned off to the highest bidders. The only reason anyone gives a shit about me now is because I have evidence."

Neal shrugged. "You're right. They don't care. Well, individually they might. Agent Burke is a decent man. But to the government, you're just another slave. You have information they need."

"Yeah? And how do they like being at someone's mercy for a change?"

"You finally get some justice."

"There's no justice for slaves. I'm not even entitled to a lawyer."

"You're not being charged with anything. If you don't help these guys out, you'll just go back in the system. Serve out the rest of your sentence with a new master. But if you tell them what happened, they'll make sure you're rewarded for it. Seems to me, you're the one who comes out on top."

Trevor looked unconvinced, so Neal continued. "In a day or two, the papers are going to get wind of this. It's going to be embarrassing for the state—a convicted felon counterfeiting gemstones while enslaved. I'm sure the FBI would rather release the story that they saved an abused and exploited slave from a criminal."

"Yeah, 'cause it's not embarrassing for them that I got sold to that asshole in the first place. Instead of going after him for those gems, they should focus on how he treated me."

"If you go on the record, I'm sure they'll investigate your claims. They want a case against this guy."

Trevor fidgeted in his seat. With a sigh, he said, "Fine. I've got three years left on my sentence. If I help, I want them taken off. I want to go free after this."

Neal stole a glance toward the window. If he made Trevor any promises, Peter would be livid. And if the FBI wasn't willing to agree to Trevor's terms, Neal would just be giving him false hope.

"They're willing to take time off," he said. "I don't know how much, but if you're helpful, maybe you'll go free sooner rather than later."

Slowly, Trevor nodded. "Fine. Tell them I'll make a statement."

Neal smiled and started to walk to the door. As he reached for the knob, Trevor spoke up again.

"And I know where he kept his supplies. There's a storage unit. I'll tell them all about it."

Neal nodded and stepped out into the hall. He closed the door behind him and turned to face Peter and Hughes.

Peter grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. "That was great in there. If there is a storage unit, we might have a really strong case."

"What about Trevor? Are you going to take off his remaining time?"

Peter looked at Hughes, who shrugged.

"Normally we wouldn't offer a full commutation for this, but it's only three years. If he follows through with his information, I'm sure the DOJ will agree."

"All right, Neal," Peter said, "you can go now. If we need any more help, we'll let you know."

"Actually, I'm starting to get hungry. Would it be any problem if I went out to get some lunch? I could pick you up something?"

"No, I think I'll have you stay in the office today. I'll get us some lunch after I'm through here."

So much for that idea. He almost wished he hadn't asked—it would have been easier to sneak out and then claim he'd misinterpreted Peter's permission to leave. But he doubted that excuse would save him from a spanking.

Instead of going back to the boardroom, he headed to Peter's office. He sat in Peter's chair and leaned back.

Peter's chair was much nicer than the ones in the boardroom.

Neal felt at his jacket pocket and pulled out the letter to Kate. He was wearing an old blazer of Peter's—not exactly his choice of attire, but at least it had pockets that he could stash things in.

He tapped the envelope against his palm. Getting out of the office to mail it seemed impossible. He could try to put it in the outgoing mail, but he would have to find out when it was sent out.

And then there was one other option.

He reached into his pocket again and pulled out the piece of paper with Stephen's phone number. Neal looked around to make sure no one was watching him, and then picked up the phone on Peter's desk.

While the phone rang, Neal kept his eyes on the window in front of him. He expected someone to notice him at any moment, but he hoped that most of the agents wouldn't find it odd to see him on the phone.

After a few rings, Stephen picked up.

"Blanchard residence," he said.

"Stephen. This is Neal. We met at the party."

"Oh, hey. When I saw 'FBI' on the collar ID, I almost didn't answer."

"I'm calling from my master's office. I don't have a lot of time. You said you can mail things?"

"Yeah, sure."

"I have a letter I want to send to my girlfriend, but I'm having trouble sending it out."

"Okay. How did you want to get it to me?"

"That's the thing. I don't know when I'd be able to meet with you. Any chance you could transcribe it over the phone? I can reimburse you for the stamp and envelope later."

"Don't worry about it. Donna won't notice. Go ahead—I'm getting a piece of paper now."

Neal started to recite the letter from memory, speaking slowly to give Stephen time. "Dear Kate, I just received your note, and I hope it isn't too late to respond. I want to talk to you face-to-face. I can't wait four years to see you again. Have our friend arrange a day and time. Love, Neal."

"That it?" Stephen asked. "She'll know what friend you're talking about?"

"She'll know."

"How about I include a note saying that I wrote this for you? I mean, the handwriting will confuse her otherwise, won't it?" 

"Sure, go ahead."

He heard some rustling in the background. Neal kept an eye on the window. He couldn't see Diana's desk, but that meant she couldn't see him, either.

"And what's the address?"

Neal told him, and then said, "Can you mail it today?"

"No problem. Donna's still at work, and I could use a break from the apartment."

As Neal hung up, he sat back and put his own copy of the letter back in his pocket. He thought that he if got a chance, he would still mail it, just in case. He didn't like leaving it in the hands of a stranger, but at least Stephen's copy couldn't be traced back to Neal too easily.

Normally, he would have given the letter to Moz to deliver, but Mozzie hadn't been around lately.

It was like everyone was deserting Neal.

But if he could see Kate, then everything would be okay.

 

* * *

 

Neal had his feet on the desk and was playing with the rubber band ball when Peter came into the office. He stood in the doorway and looked at Neal with narrowed eyes.

"I thought I gave you a job to do."

"I needed a break. Those files are mind-numbing. Did everything work out with Trevor?"

Peter nodded. "Yeah, he made a statement. We'll hold onto him here for a couple days, in case he thinks of anything else. Then we'll transfer him to the city jail. We agreed to take the three years off, so he should go free within a month or two."

Neal tossed the ball in the air. "I helped get the information. Do I get time off my sentence, too?"

"No."

Neal pouted.

"I still can't believe you're not going to charge him for the counterfeit gems," he said.

"It wouldn't be right to hold him responsible for something his master was making him do."

Neal grinned. "So, you could make me forge artwork, bonds, anything you wanted, and I wouldn't get arrested for it?"

Peter narrowed his eyes. "If I was completely insane and had a reason to make you do that, yes." He swatted Neal's foot. "Don't get any stupid ideas. Being a slave isn't a get out of jail free card."

Neal took his feel of the desk. Of course he wasn't stupid. And he knew he could have time added to his sentence for the slightest infraction. They'd drilled it into him during training. Besides, he wouldn't want to see Peter arrested for something he had nothing to do with.

Even so, it was good to know that there were _some_ perks to being a slave.

Sobering, Neal said, "Is it true Trevor's owner was mistreating him?"

"I think Trevor might have exaggerated that point a bit. I don't know if there was any _abuse_ , aside from making him commit the forgeries. He was chained up when we got there, though. It's not illegal, but most owners aren't that restrictive. It'll help show the jury that he was using Trevor as a tool to commit his crimes. And it'll say something about his character. There's always something _off_ about people who chain up their slaves like dogs."

Neal could certainly agree with that. He had to admit that he could do a lot worse than Peter when it came to masters.

But Neal's face brightened when he remembered the file in the other room.

"By the way, I think I found a lead in one of those files. The check fraud case."

Peter grinned. "Oh, yeah? That's great."

Neal got up and went to the boardroom to get the file. When he came back, Peter was sitting in the chair Neal had vacated.

He nodded approvingly while Neal showed him what he'd found. He waited until Neal finished to speak.

"Great work. I'll have Jones look into this. I'm going to go get us some lunch now. I think you earned yourself something good."

"Can I come with you?"

Peter seemed to consider that. He looked at Neal with sympathy, like he realized that Neal must be getting cabin fever by now.

"I've got another errand to run. You'd just slow me down. But I'll tell you what—when I get back, we can eat lunch together outside."

After Peter left, Neal tried to take another stab at the remaining files in the boardroom. 

He hadn't made much progress when Diana poked her head in the door and told him that Peter was downstairs, waiting for him.

Neal's nerves buzzed as he rode the elevator down by himself. He felt truly unsupervised, if only for a few minutes.

He stepped outside and squinted his eyes in the harsh sun. It was a cold afternoon, and he gathered his coat around him. Looking left and right, he saw Peter waving him over.

He walked over to the bench where Peter was sitting.

"Kind of chilly for eating lunch outside, isn't it?"

"Oh, cowboy up. It's invigorating."

"If I get hypothermia, I'm blaming you."

He sat down beside Peter. Peter handed him a warm, foil-wrapped sandwich.

"A cheesesteak," Neal said. "It smells good."

"One of the best in the city."

Peter also had a bag from a bookstore. Neal eyed it, wondering what was so important that Peter wanted to get it on his lunch break.

As if noticing Neal's interest, Peter said, "I got something for you." He set his sandwich on his lap and picked up the bag. He took out a book and handed it to Neal.

"A GED study guide?"

"Yep. El and I decided you should get your GED."

"What? When was this decided?"

"This morning."

"Why didn't I get a say?"

"Because you were too busy preening in front of the bathroom mirror. If you want to be a part of breakfast-table discussions, you have to join us for breakfast."

That was hardly fair. He _had_ joined them for breakfast, but they were already finishing by the time he got downstairs.

"What if I don't want to get my GED?"

Peter frowned. "This isn't optional. We've already decided. What's the matter? I didn't expect you to be _excited_ , but I didn't think you'd have any objections."

"I don't need my GED, Peter. I've done just fine without it."

"Considering your life choices have led to slavery, I think we can debate that. Listen, I'm just asking you to do your best. Having your GED won't hurt. It'll give you more options after you're freed. You can even go to college if you want. If you won't do it for yourself, do it for me and El. We feel like we have a duty to you, as your owners."

Neal couldn't argue with anything Peter had said. Still, against all logic, he hated the idea that Peter was trying to _improve_ him.

But he knew that Peter meant well.

"Okay," he said. "I'll guess I'll give it a try."

"Great," Peter said with a grin. "Now let's eat before our food gets cold."

 

* * *

 

Neal spent the rest of the afternoon sitting across from Peter's desk.

Peter wanted him to start studying, so that was what Neal did. After a couple hours, he was halfway through the study guide. He set it down and looked up at Peter, who was working on the computer.

"Do I really need to go through this whole book? I already know all of this."

"There are more practice questions in the back. Work on those."

"If I get them all right, can we agree that I don't need to study?"

Peter stopped typing and looked at him. "If you'd rather go over some more case files...."

"I'd rather study."

Neal went back to reading. A minute later, Hughes came in.

Leaning in the doorway, Hughes said, "Before I go home, I wanted to say good job on this jewel case."

"Thanks. Some of the credit goes to Neal. He was a big help with the slave."

"That he was." Hughes looked at the cover of Neal's book. "The GED, huh?"

"Yeah. Neal told me he never finished high school, so I thought it'd be a good idea."

"I think it's a great idea. A lot of owners never give any thought to what will happen to their slaves when they're freed. It's good to see you're thinking of Caffrey's future."

Peter beamed, soaking up the praise. "Thank you, sir. I agree. Though, I think Neal still has some stuff to learn about being a slave before he focuses on the future _too_ much."

"That's how it always is with these short-term slaves, Peter. They can't be conditioned like the longer-term slaves can be. It takes too much time. And those slaves serving twenty or thirty years have a tough time adjusting to freedom. It's not worth all that for only four years."

"Yeah, I guess you have a point."

"You and Elizabeth are doing a great job as it is. And you can handle Caffrey. Too many owners let their slaves walk all over them. They forget that these are convicted felons."

"Neal knows he can't get anything by me."

Neal had some things he could say to that, but he thought it best to keep his mouth shut. 

Hughes said goodbye, and then it was just the two of them again.

Looking through the glass wall, Neal saw the agents in the bullpen file out the door and into the elevators.

Peter noticed him watching, and said, "Don't worry—we'll be going home soon. I just have a couple things to finish up."

Neal leaned back and rubbed his neck.

"Your collar still bothering you?"

"A little bit, yeah. You know, I was reading a copy of _Master & Slave_ magazine the other day. It had an article about how most countries in Europe have done away with collars."

"Most owners still make their slaves wear them. But you know that—you spent quite a lot of time in Europe."

"Yeah, but it's optional. And the collars aren't so...secure. In England, leather collars are popular." He sat up. "It's not that I mind the collar so much. But it does get tiring after a while. Don't you think I deserve a break from it, just for a few minutes?"

Peter gave him a warning look. "Neal, the law says that slaves have to wear a collar at all times."

"There are exceptions. Like if I'm at the hospital, or in the custody of law enforcement. You're an FBI agent, and we're in FBI headquarters. Doesn't that count? Just five minutes, Peter. And I won't ask again."

For a minute, Peter just ignored him, and Neal was prepared to accept that it was a lost cause. But then, Peter sighed and rolled his chair back. He dug his keys out of his pocket and unlocked the bottom desk drawer, the one Neal had tried to pick his way into last time.

"All right. Five minutes. But only because you were a big help today, and because no one else is around."

Neal beamed. He never imagined Peter would actually agree. He watched as Peter opened the drawer and pulled out a sturdy metal lockbox. He used another key to open that, and Neal saw that it held a collection of collar keys.

As he selected the right one, Peter said, "I know that thing's probably heavy. I wouldn't want to wear it either, but that's the law."

He got up and walked around to Neal. He pushed Neal's head forward, and Neal felt him tug at his collar. There was a small click, and the collar opened. After Peter took it off, he immediately locked it and set it on the desk.

"The sensor will send an alert if it's unlocked for too long," he said.

The lightness was strange. Neal hadn't realized how normal the collar had become. Truthfully, the collar didn't impede his movement too much. But nevertheless, having it off made him feel freer. Neal twisted his neck and rolled his head.

As he sat back down, Peter smiled at Neal. "Feel good?"

"Yeah."

"Hold onto that feeling. Think about how nice it'll be when you get that taken off for good."

It figured Peter would try to find a way to make this educational. At the moment, Neal didn't care. He reached over and picked up the collar, eager to look at the details that he couldn't see well in the mirror.

His slave number was engraved along the front. At the back, he saw the lock, which was barely more than a couple pinholes. The clasp was almost indistinguishable. He could make out the casing that concealed the GPS transmitter and the lock sensor.

Next, he studied the tag that Peter had affixed to the D-ring.

After a few minutes, Peter turned off his computer monitor and stood up.

"All right, Neal. Time to put it back on."

With a sigh, he handed the collar to Peter. Peter unlocked it, put it around Neal's neck, and then gave it a soft tug to make sure it was locked. He squeezed Neal's shoulders.

The metal had started to cool, and it chilled Neal's skin.

Peter put away the key and locked the metal box back in the desk.

"Okay," he said, "let's go home."

 

* * *

 

It was getting dark as they drove home. When they arrived, Elizabeth was making dinner.

She was stirring a pot on the stove. Peter wrapped his arms around her and kissed her neck.

"Hey," she said, "how was work?"

"Good. Neal helped me close that fake gem case I was working on."

"That's wonderful!" She glanced at Neal and smiled.

Rubbing her back, Peter said, "How was your day?"

Elizabeth sighed. "I'm exhausted. I spent all afternoon scouting out wedding venues. And I still have work to do for the Singleman New Year's Eve Party."

"That's a shame. I thought maybe we could call it an early night, spend a little time together...."

Elizabeth gave him an apologetic smile. "I'd love to, but I don't know if I'd be good company tonight. Maybe later. And once Christmas and New Years are over, I'm all yours."

"I'll look forward to it."

While he listened to them, Neal grew uneasy. Peter was obviously in an amorous mood, and even if he would have preferred to spend some time with his wife, Neal was sure he wouldn't mind having sex with him, instead.

Sure enough, after dinner was over, Peter snuck up on Neal while he was clearing the table. Wrapping his arms around Neal's waist, he said, "Don't know about you, but my adrenaline's always pumping after a good day. How about we go upstairs?"

Neal was ready for this. He broke away from Peter's arms and carried the plates to the sink to rinse.

"Honestly, I'm beat. I was thinking of heading to bed after this."

"It's only seven."

Neal shrugged. "What can I say? It's been a long day."

It wasn't even a lie—Neal really did feel like he could go to sleep at any time.

Peter was silent for a moment, looking disappointed. Then he said, "That's no problem. I can use your ass, and you won't have to do anything. Just lie down, spread your legs, and take it easy until I'm done. Couldn't be easier."

"How efficient."

Peter patted him on the back. "C'mon. Finish up here and then go upstairs. We'll do it in your room."

Peter's tone told him there was no room for argument.

After he was done cleaning up, Neal went up to his room and got into his pajamas. Peter came in a few minutes later, carrying a bottle of lube.

"You ready?" Peter asked.

"Do I have a choice?"

Peter clicked his tongue. "C'mon, get your pants off. Do you want to do it on your hands and knees, or do you want to bend over the bed?"

Neal didn't see how it made any difference. Slowly, he took off his pajama bottoms and bent over the side of the bed. Peter came up behind him. He was still clothed, and Neal felt the fabric of his trousers against his skin. He put his hands on the insides of Neal's thighs and tried to pry them apart.

"Spread your legs."

Neal didn't budge. Peter gave him a light slap on the ass—more of a warning than a punishment—and Neal sighed and inched his feet apart. 

He heard the clink of Peter's belt buckle and a soft rustling sound as Peter lowered his pants. A moment later, Peter pressed a cold, lubed finger into Neal's hole.

Neal folded his arms under his head. He was glad when the preparation was quick and efficient. Being fingered was one of the most intimate and humiliating acts that he had to endure. Even having Peter's cock up his ass was more distant and bearable, somehow.

When Peter pushed his cock inside, Neal's ass burned from the stretch. He instinctively clenched his muscles, and Peter gave him another slap on the ass.

"Loosen up. I thought you were tired."

"I am."

"Then relax."

Neal _was_ tired. Not too tired to give Peter a hard time, but too tired to want to. Peter was just as relentless as he was, and Neal didn't feel like battling wits tonight.

So he forced his muscles to relax, and he closed his eyes. It wasn't exactly easy. Peter's cock may not have been much larger than average, but it felt huge inside him. His ass felt like it couldn't stretch any more. But Peter was right—he was tired, and that made it easier to relax.

Once Peter got into a rhythm, it was surprisingly easy to be lulled by the way Peter's thrusts rocked him back and forth.

He wondered what it would be like to do this in different circumstances. It wasn't that hard to see why some men enjoyed it. Hell, maybe someday he would ask Kate to do this with him. Maybe she could use a strap-on.

With that thought, his cock got a little harder.

And maybe it wouldn't be so bad to be fucked by a man who didn't own him. Neal wasn't attracted to men, but the idea of sex with one wasn't so foreign, anymore.

But this wasn't exactly like having sex. Peter didn't seem to know if he wanted to have sex with Neal the man or fuck Neal the sex slave. And Peter never let him forget who the master was.

Neal rested his cheek against the cool bed. The quilt felt nice. The next thing he knew, he was jolted back to awareness by Peter gripping his hips and grunting. When Peter pulled out a moment later, he patted Neal's back.

"Looked like you were dozing off, there."

Neal swallowed. "Just resting my eyes."

Peter stroked his hip. "I'm glad you're getting used to this." 

Neal clenched his teeth. He was _not_ "getting used to it."

Peter reached around and touched Neal's half-hard cock. "Didn't come this time?" He sounded disappointed. "If you want, I can—"

Neal pushed himself up on his elbows. "Like I said, I'm tired."

"Yeah, all right. I guess we'll let you rest now. I'm going to go hit the shower."

He gave Neal a gentle swat on the ass and left him. After a moment, Neal pulled up his pajama bottoms and crawled up onto the bed.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At Christmas, Peter and Elizabeth have a pleasant surprise for Neal.

In the days leading up to Christmas, Neal grew increasingly melancholy.

He used to like Christmas. He didn't have any traditions or fond childhood memories, but since coming to New York, he'd enjoyed going to the ballet and conning his way into parties during December.

But while Peter and Elizabeth talked about going up to Peter's parents' house, there was no mention of what Neal was supposed to do with his time. There was no implication that they intended to give him anything.

At this point, Neal could use a holiday. Though he loved going to work with Elizabeth and Peter, they didn't quite adjust their expectations for him at home. He still had to find time to do his chores. And now he had to study for the GED, too.

It wasn't like they even noticed most of his work. Even Elizabeth, who had high standards when it came to housework, didn't seem to notice if Neal skipped the dusting occasionally.

One afternoon, he was home alone with orders to vacuum the living room. He stood for a few minutes in front of the open closet, staring at the vacuum. The floor still looked clean. He could put this off for a few more days, and they'd never notice.

He closed the closet door and spent the afternoon drawing and reading, instead. Peter and Elizabeth got days off work. Why shouldn’t he?

When Elizabeth got home a few hours later, she barely looked at the house. She seemed too busy with Christmas parties to show much interest in what Neal got up to.

The only thing Peter bothered him about was studying for the GED. Neal saw no real purpose in it, but Peter was adamant.

"I'll tell you what," Peter said one evening, "if you pass the test, we'll give you a reward."

They were sitting in the living room after dinner, and Neal was flipping through one of his study guides. 

"What?" Neal asked with a snort. "More of your hand-me-downs?"

"No...I was thinking more like your own slave account."

Neal started to turn a page and froze.

Slaves weren't allowed to have their own money, and masters were discouraged from letting them have cash. But many people saw no use in a slave who couldn't do the grocery shopping. So banks offered slave accounts—debit cards that masters could put money on. It prevented slaves from squirreling away cash, and let the master control how much money the slave had access too.

For the slave, it meant a certain amount of independence. Some masters only let their slaves use the debit cards for errands, but others gave an allowance for luxuries.

"Really? You'd trust me with that?"

"If you earn it, yes."

Neal considered that for a moment, and turned back to his book.

 

* * *

 

On Christmas, Peter and Elizabeth left early in the afternoon. Neal hadn't been invited—Peter's parents only lived an hour away, and apparently that was close enough that they didn't mind leaving Neal at home.

As they were leaving, Peter said to Neal, "Take it easy today. You deserve a holiday."

At least they were thinking of him a little. Though, Neal wouldn't have done many chores today regardless.

He couldn't spend all his time relaxing. He'd planned to bake a homemade apple pie for the Burkes as a Christmas present. He thought Elizabeth might suspect something, because she'd been the one to purchase the ingredients for him, but Neal had to work with what he had.

Mozzie showed up just after Neal put the pie in the oven. Neal had been hoping he'd come, but hadn't known if he would. He hadn't seen Mozzie in weeks.

"I have something for you," Mozzie said as Neal let him in. He handed Neal a paper bag.

Neal opened it up and took a sniff of the aroma that emanated from it. "Chicken piccata?"

"From that Italian place you always loved. I didn't know if you'd already eaten, but I thought you could appreciate it."

"I'm surprised they're open on the Christmas."

"Well, I happen to know the chef."

Neal set the bag on the dining room table. Tenderly, he said, "Thanks, Moz."

While Neal ate, Mozzie sat across from him and filled him in on everything he'd been missing.

As soon as Neal could get a word in, he took a drink of water and said, "Have you talked to Kate?"

Mozzie glanced down at his hands. "Not recently."

"I sent her a letter. I was hoping you'd know if she got it."

"I haven't heard anything. But if she hasn't responded, maybe it's a sign you should back off for a while. Focus on other things."

"Like what?" Neal snapped. "Doing housework? Studying for my GED? I have enough of that in my life."

"There must be something you can—wait, the Suit's making you get your GED?"

Neal poked at his food, embarrassed. "He thinks it'll help me. He means well."

"Neal, don't you see? He's trying to domesticate you."

"I know, but what can I do about it? Besides, it's better to let him think he's succeeding. At least a little."

"Ah. Ingratiate yourself to him and reap the rewards. A fine strategy, as long as you don't let his efforts rub off on you _too_ much."

"Don't worry, Moz—his methods aren't that effective."

Mozzie stayed for another half-hour before leaving. An hour after Mozzie left, Peter and Elizabeth returned.

Peter was carrying a large red and green gift bag, which he set on the floor by the sofa.

As Elizabeth came in, she said, "Something smells good in here!"

Smiling, Neal said, "I made an apple pie. It should be cool now."

Elizabeth squeezed his shoulders and gave him a peck on the cheek. "Thank you. I'm sure it'll be great."

As Elizabeth headed into the kitchen, Peter gently slapped Neal on the shoulder.

"Yeah," he said, "you didn't have to make anything today."

Shrugging, Neal said, "It wasn't a problem."

Peter reached into the gift bag, which Neal figured must be from the Burke family. He pulled out a dog bone with a bow on it and set it on the coffee table. Then he pulled out a small box of chocolates.

"Here." He handed it to Neal. "My parents got you a little treat."

Neal smiled. He'd never met Peters' parents, but he liked them already. He noticed Peter eyeing the chocolate box. Peter didn't strike him as the type to steal a slave's Christmas present, but Neal decided he would stash the candy in his room, anyway. No point in tempting Peter's self-control.

That evening, after dinner, Peter and Elizabeth exchanged gifts while Neal took care of the dishes. Neal didn't really have much to do, but he dragged out his chores to avoid walking through the living room until they were done. He didn't want to sit and watch them give each other presents while he got nothing, and he didn't feel like letting them see him go up to his room alone.

Besides, he already knew what they were giving each other. He'd watched Elizabeth wrap a new leather wallet and some nice aftershave for Peter the other day, and last week, Peter had dragged Neal to a jewelry store to buy a pair of earrings. Neal had helped pick them out, but he knew he wasn't getting any credit for that. Not that he minded much—he couldn't help but get swept up in the romanticism of helping Peter surprise his wife.

Satchmo was on the kitchen floor, happily gnawing on his new bone.

At least Neal had gotten a good lunch and some chocolates. He couldn't exactly complain.

He finished loading the dishes in the dishwasher, and was leaning on the counter when Elizabeth called him into the living room.

As he entered the living room, she smiled and said, "There you are! C'mon, we have something for you."

There was a giftwrapped box Neal hadn't seen before. He sat down in a vacant chair and carefully opened the taped-down flaps.

It was a shoebox. Neal opened it to reveal a pair of new boots.

"They're your size," Elizabeth said, "but if you don't like how they fit, we can exchange them."

Neal took one of the boots out of the box and examined it with a smile. It was nice, and seemed very good quality.

It was also practical, and a cynical part of him realized that this present benefitted the Burkes as much as it did him. Now that he had proper shoes, they could make him shovel snow more.

Still, it was a nice gift.

At Elizabeth's urging, he tried them on and walked around the room in them. They fit him well.

"These are great," he said. "Thanks. I wasn't expecting you guys to get me anything."

That was partly true—he _was_ expecting something, but when he hadn't seen any sign of a present, he'd started to accept disappointment. He'd even snooped around the house, looking for hidden presents, but with no luck.

As if reading his mind, Peter said, "We wanted it to be a surprise. We kept those stashed in our room where you wouldn't find them."

"And," Elizabeth said, "we have another surprise for you. Upstairs."

Neal changed back into his other shoes and followed them. They led him up to the third floor, but instead of going into his room, they opened the door to the room next to his. The other room was a small home office, but the Burkes rarely used it. It was mostly used for storage. There was an old futon in there that Elizabeth told him was from the apartment she'd lived in before meeting Peter, and there was a treadmill that neither of them ever found time to use. Neal had gone in there a few times, but had quickly lost interest. He used the treadmill occasionally, but he preferred to walk or run outside when they let him. It was better than staring at a blank wall while he ran.

Tonight, there was something new. Standing in front of the window was a full-size wooden easel. There were a couple canvases leaning against the wall, along with some paints and brushes.

Neal looked at it, speechless, and then looked over his shoulder.

"You guys seriously got this for me?"

"No," Peter said dryly, "we felt like taking up painting. Of course it's for you."

He walked over to the easel and touched it. He normally liked to pick out his own supplies, but he was too pleased to think about that now. He'd been starting to accept that he might not paint again for a long time.

"We put it in here because we thought you might like to paint by the window," Elizabeth said. "This room faces north, so you'll have the sun. But you can take it downstairs if you'd rather paint down there. Just be careful with the paint, and make sure you don't leave things down there."

"This is perfect," he said. It would be like a studio. There was an old desk against the wall—maybe he could use it for storing supplies. And this room was right next door to his bedroom, so he could easily paint at night if he wanted.

Looking at Peter, Neal said, "I can't believe you actually got this without me knowing."

"Oh, come on. You can't be surprised—you've been hinting about wanting paints for ages."

"Yeah, and you kept telling me paints are expensive."

Elizabeth smiled. "Well, we decided you deserved it."

"But Neal," Peter said in a warning tone, "don't expect us to buy you more paints and canvases whenever you want. They _are_ expensive. It's going to have to be a special treat."

"Oh, honey," Elizabeth said, "just let him enjoy his present. He's got plenty to work with for now."

"And if I get my GED, I'll have an allowance, right? I can buy my own supplies."

Peter shrugged. "Sure. Why not?"

Neal was already thinking about what he wanted to do for his first project. He didn't have a whole lot of free time, between going to work with Peter and Elizabeth, doing his chores, and studying, but the unoccupied time he did have was often dull and unstimulating. Painting had always helped him relax and stimulated his mind.

Rubbing his back, Elizabeth said, "If you want to look at your new things, you can. You don't have to do any more work tonight. I can finish cleaning up downstairs."

"Thank you. Do you think I could keep my art supplies in here?"

"Sure," Peter said. "We don't use this room much."

Neal spent the rest of the evening setting up his new "studio." It wasn't much, but it would do. Neal had always been good at working in whatever conditions he found himself in.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter decides to experiment in the bedroom. Neal is unimpressed.

A few days after New Year's, Elizabeth went up to Vermont for a wedding expo. She left on Thursday evening and wouldn't be back until Sunday night.

Neal helped her carry her bags out to the car. He stood to the side while Elizabeth kissed Peter and said goodbye.

Next, she hugged Neal and said, "Remember to listen to Peter. But make sure he eats well."

"I think I can survive without having Neal in charge of my diet," Peter said dryly.

Obeying Peter and making sure he ate well were contradictory orders. But Neal gave Elizabeth a reassuring smile and promised to do his best.

Once she'd driven away, Peter led the way back inside.

"While El's gone," Peter said, "why don't you sleep in the master bedroom with me?"

So much for getting some peace and quiet. 

Despite his ambivalence about being alone with Peter, he hoped that Elizabeth's absence would lighten his workload a little. Elizabeth was great company, but she was more particular about the housekeeping than Peter was.

But it looked like Peter planned to keep Neal busy with a different kind of "work."

Peter didn't even wait a couple hours before dragging Neal upstairs.

While they walked up to the master bedroom, Neal said, "Shouldn't this wait? I have to make dinner."

"Nah, don't worry about dinner. I'll order a pizza." He looked over his shoulder at Neal and smiled. "I want to try out those cuffs El got me."

Reluctantly, Neal followed Peter into the master bedroom and stood by the bed. He watched as Peter got the cuffs out of the nightstand.

At least the cuffs were padded. He'd be comfortable while Peter had his way with him.

"Go on," Peter said. "Get undressed. You can leave you underwear on, for now."

How generous. Neal had no doubt they'd be coming off soon enough.

Neal stripped slowly and knelt on the bed. Peter stripped down to his own underwear and climbed onto the bed beside him.

Peter looked at the cuffs. With a small, wistful smile, he said, "You know, I wish I'd been the one to put the cuffs on when I arrested you."

Nodding at the cuffs, Neal said, "So, is this is a do-over?"

"Yeah, I guess you could say that." Grinning, he said, "Hands behind your back."

Neal obeyed with a sigh, and Peter fastened the cuffs around his wrists.

"Neal Caffrey," Peter said, "you're under arrest for fraud, grand larceny, forgery, and racketeering. You have the right to remain silent—"

"Hey," Neal said, looking over his shoulder, "a jury of my peers found me innocent of most of those charges."

Peter shushed him. Apparently, he didn't have a _right_ to remain silent as much as an obligation.

Peter stroked Neal's wrists. "This would be even better with my cuffs," he said.

He said it longingly, and Neal could just hear the dilemma in his voice. Did he dare break protocol by using department-issue cuffs for a sex game? Peter always wanted to play by the book, even when he wasn't being watched.

"I dunno," Peter said, "I guess these are easier on your wrists. They won't chafe as much."

"Nice of you take my wrists into consideration."

Adopting a firmer tone, Peter said, "All right, Caffrey. Time for your strip search."

"Since when do arresting agents perform strip searches? Were there budget cuts?"

Peter stroked Neal's hip. He slid his fingers into the waist of Neal's boxer briefs. "If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself. I'm not letting you out of my sight for one minute."

Neal thought Peter was getting his role play scenarios mixed up. Was this an arrest scenario or a strip search?

"Turn around," Peter said. "Face me."

Neal shuffled around on his knees. When he was face-to-face with Peter, Peter slipped two fingers into his mouth. 

"Suck," Peter said.

Neal closed his lips around Peter's fingers. Peter thrust them in and out of his mouth, fucking it.

"Gotta make sure you're not hiding anything in that sly mouth of yours," Peter said with a smile.

After a minute, Neal started to tire of Peter's fingers invading his mouth. Neal bit down, just hard enough for Peter to yelp and remove his hand.

"What the hell was that?" His eyes were wide and not at all happy.

"You wanted to play strip search," Neal said with a shrug. "I'm just getting into character. What do you _think_ would happen if you shoved your fingers in a convict's mouth?"

Peter's expression didn't soften, but his mouth twisted into a mischievous smile. "Oh, so you want to be an uncooperative convict, huh? I'll just have to make sure you can't cause any more problems while I search you. Turn around."

Neal didn't like the sound of that, but he obeyed. Peter unbuckled one of the cuffs, leaving Neal's left hand free.

"Now, lie down," Peter said. "On your back."

Neal obeyed, but slowly. He wasn't sure he liked where this was heading. Peter lifted his arms above his head. He looped the empty cuff around one of the wooden posts in the headboard, and re-cuffed Neal's hand. Now Neal was secured to the bed.

"We can't have you interfering, can we?" Peter said. "When you don't cooperate, it makes me think you've got something to hide. I think I'm going to have to search your genitals and your rectum _very_ thoroughly."

Peter grabbed the waist of Neal's underwear and pulled them down. Peter made a brief show of searching the folds of the fabric before tossing the underwear on the floor.

He lifted Neal's cock and balls and spent a good, long minute "searching" them. He tugged at Neal's cock so he could look at it from all angles, and even gently palpated his balls with his fingers.

Neal had been strip searched for real, and while it was one of the more degrading parts of being arrested, he could tell Peter that it wasn't like _this_. Strip searches did not involve groping and kneading.

Instead of focusing on Peter's search, he focused on the cuffs. These cuffs didn't even lock—they were "secured" with buckles that Neal could easily undo. It was like Peter wanted him to escape from them.

He got one of his hands free, and was in the process of freeing the other one when Peter looked up and noticed.

Peter's eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips. 

" _Neal_. What are you doing?"

"I'm escaping from custody."

Peter's nostrils flared. He grabbed Neal's free wrist and put it back in the cuff. "Oh no, you're not." He secured the buckle and pointed a finger at Neal's face. "Stay."

Then he returned to the task at hand.

By the time Peter decided that Neal's privates had been examined sufficiently, Neal's cock was agonizingly hard. It had been less of a search than a tease, and Neal's cock looked like it was begging for more.

Peter got the lube out of the nightstand. While he squirted some on his fingers, he said, "Your ass may _look_ tight, but I bet you've hidden all sorts of stuff up there."

Neal rolled his eyes. "Right. I've got a lock pick set in my ass."

Peter pushed Neal's knees apart with his clean hand and pushed one of his lube-covered fingers into Neal's hole. The lube was too cool, and Neal jerked.

"I know that's cold," Peter said. "Maybe if you didn't escape from the cuffs, I could have warmed it up a little."

Peter quickly added another finger. The "search" took a few minutes, and Peter was especially dedicated to massaging Neal's prostate to ensure it wasn't contraband. Neal didn't think the two things could possibly be confused, but he'd long since stopped expecting any realism from this game.

Still, when Peter started to lube up his cock, Neal peered down his chest and said, "Isn't there a rule against fucking prisoners?"

Hell, even at the processing center, the guards hadn't been allowed to fuck the slaves. That hadn't stopped a couple of them from copping a feel occasionally, but with so many slaves to deal with, there wasn't much time to use searches and exams as an excuse.

Peter ignored him. He grabbed Neal's calves and pulled his legs up and back.

"You're flexible...." Peter said.

Neal squirmed. He'd never been fucked on his back before. It was strange to be able to see Peter's face, see the lust in his eyes. This position made him think of the first time Peter saw him as a slave, back at the processing center. Neal was glad he wasn't prone to blushing, or he was sure he'd be red right now.

Peter shuffled forward on his knees and moved in between Neal's legs. Still holding Neal's legs lewdly apart, he aimed his cock into Neal's ass.

To Neal's amazement, the penetration was even deeper than when he was fucked on his stomach. His legs ached from being pushed back and spread.

As Peter got going, he slowly lowered Neal's legs a few inches. His legs came to a rest on either side of Peter's waist, and Neal crossed his feet just above Peter's ass.

"Oh, yeah," Peter muttered. "This is great. I love seeing your face and your dick while I fuck you."

Neal's dick was waving back and forth obscenely. Every thrust against his prostate made him feel like he was closer and closer to coming.

Neal peered down the length of his chest and stomach, transfixed by the scene that played out in front of him: his own dick slapping against his stomach from the force of Peter's thrusts, and Peter, sweating and panting, driving his cock in and out like a piston.

Neal knew his ass would be sore for at least the next day. Peter had yet to hurt him, but he always felt a little raw after Peter was through.

The chain connecting the cuffs rattled with each thrust.

And then it was over. Peter squeezed his eyes shut and let out a small, strangled cry as he came. Neal realized he'd never seen Peter's face while he came before. Not properly. Peter looked like he was in heaven. His face was covered in a sheen of sweat, and some damp locks of hair fell onto his forehead.

He let go of Neal's legs as he pulled out. Neal winced as he tried to bring his legs together—they'd grown stiff and tired. His cock was still hard. The red, blood-engorged head was pointing up toward his face.

Peter sat back on his heels. He looked down at Neal's cock, giving it a strange look. He kept his eyes fixed on it for so long that Neal felt even more on display. He instinctively pulled at the cuffs, wanting to cover his groin from view.

Then, without warning, Peter bent down and touched his tongue to Neal's dick.

It was so unexpected that Neal jumped and tried to move out of reach. Peter looked up at him, eyes wide.

"Whoa, what's the matter?"

"What are you doing?"

"Never sucked a guy's dick before. I wanted to see what it was like. Relax—I'm not gonna to bite."

"But—" Neal didn't know how to finish the sentence. 

Neal had never heard of an owner sucking their slave's cock before, though he was sure some people enjoyed it. Slaves were taught that giving oral sex to their masters was an act of subservience, and Neal had known free men who saw it that way. He'd always assumed that Peter was similar in that regard, at least when it came to him. He certainly seemed to like dominating him. It hadn't occurred to him that Peter might take any interest in his cock.

"Did Elizabeth put you up to this?" Neal asked. "Because if she did, it's really not necessary."

Peter frowned. "Why would you think Elizabeth put me up to it?"

Neal bit his lip. He realized this might not be the best moment to point out that Elizabeth was more concerned with his pleasure than Peter was.

When Neal didn't respond, Peter rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't pretend I haven't tried to give you a good time before. It's just, watching you suck my dick has made me curious. Maybe if you'd been a little more cooperative, a little warmer, I would've done this for you sooner."

Neal had never _asked_ him to, but before he could say that, Peter ducked back down and tentatively licked at the shaft of Neal's cock. Slowly, he eased the head into his mouth.

Neal struggled to keep his hips still. Part of him wanted to wiggle away and escape. Peter may have thought he was doing Neal a favor, but Neal was just fine with him ignoring his dick. He liked feeling like he had control over at least one part of his body.

But another part of him was desperate to thrust his cock into Peter's mouth. The soft wetness of Peter's tongue was too much. Neal tried to hold back, but he was reaching the brink. Before he could say anything, his cock twitched in Peter's mouth and he came.

Peter was clearly not expecting it. His eyes widened, and he looked like he'd just been sprayed in the face with a fire hose. Grimacing, he pulled back.

Neal's softening cock flopped out of his mouth. The head glistened with spit and come.

Neal was mortified. He was sure Peter would be mad at him, even if he'd never asked for the stupid blowjob. 

Still making a face like he'd drank sour milk, Peter grabbed several tissues from the box on the nightstand and spit out the mouthful of come.

Neal's embarrassment was quickly overcome by vindication.

"See?" he said, lifting his head from the pillow. "You don't like it, either."

"Don't start."

"If you're going to spit it out, I should be allowed to spit, too."

Peter narrowed his eyes and swatted Neal's thigh. It was a light, almost playful slap, and Neal could tell he wasn't actually that annoyed.

"All right, enough from you, or I'll leave you in those cuffs for a while longer."

It wasn't much of a threat, considering Neal could manage the buckles just fine without Peter's help. But he didn't say anything more.

Peter released Neal from the cuffs. After Neal sat up, Peter took his wrists in his hands and checked for marks. There were some indentations in his skin where the edges of the cuffs had dug in, but nothing that wouldn't fade within minutes.

"The cuffs seem comfortable," Peter said. "Doesn't look like you'll have any bruises."

"They're better than handcuffs. I'll give them that."

Easier to get out of, too.

"See?" Peter said, rubbing Neal's wrists. "It's not so bad, having sex with me."

"I never said it was _bad_. I know there are worse things than being a pleasure slave."

"I know. You just like to pretend you're in control of everything. Hard to do when you've never been with a man before. I know when you're with El, you probably pretend you guys are lovers. That's fine. I get it. I just don't understand why it can't be the same with me."

Peter seemed to think it was easy for him to pretend. But Neal was far too driven by his heart when it came to sex.

But things were no longer as clear as they'd been. He was straight, yes, but he couldn't deny that Peter was gentle and capable of making the sex pleasurable. And he knew that his life would be easier—better, even—if he could try to make the most of it.

It was his pride that prevented him from giving in.

"If it makes you feel better," Peter said, "I've never done most of this stuff before, either. We're learning the ropes together."

"Do you find me attractive?" Neal asked.

Being attracted to a person was different than being attracted to the idea of fucking a slave. A lot of owners saw their slaves as mere toys.

Peter hesitated. Evidently, the answer wasn't obvious to him. Or he didn't want to admit to it.

"Yeah, I guess I do."

"Even if I was your equal?"

Peter sighed. "I don't know, Neal. If you'd never done the things you did to get enslaved, if I hadn't chased you...how am I supposed to know how things would be?"

Neal grinned. "You like that I'm a criminal, don't you? It excites you."

"Neal...."

"You like someone who gives you a challenge."

"All right, all right. Enough." But Peter's tone was gentle, and he was smiling. "I like a challenge as long as I win."

Neal pointed to his collar. "I think you can already say you've won."

"Hmm." Peter sounded doubtful. "Maybe."

 

* * *

 

After they washed up and got dressed, Peter ordered a pizza.

Elizabeth had left a list of chores for Neal on the refrigerator, and while Peter wasn't looking, Neal took it down and folded it up in his pocket. Peter didn't need to know what he was supposed to be doing.

Sleeping with Peter that night was more comfortable than Neal had expected. With Elizabeth away, he was able to take advantage of the extra room. And their mattress was newer than his. Neal stretched out. He could smell Elizabeth's shampoo on the pillow.

In the middle of the night, he woke up to Peter mumbling in his sleep. Neal lifted his head off the pillow and listened for a minute.

"Shoot the coffee machine," Peter murmured. "Diana. Shoot it...."

"Peter," Neal said softly, "it's all right. You're dreaming."

"Jones drank the coffee. He's a zombie...."

Neal nudged Peter with his foot. "It's okay. The coffee's gone."

Peter jerked awake. "Wha--?"

"You were dreaming," Neal said. "Talking in your sleep."

Peter smacked his lips. "I don't talk in my sleep."

"Then how do I know you were dreaming about coffee and zombies?"

Peter didn't have a response for that. Looking a little sheepish, he cleared his throat and said, "Sorry I woke you."

"I wasn't really sleeping, anyway."

Peter slid his arm under Neal's neck and wrapped it around his shoulders. He rubbed Neal's back with a light touch.

Neal wondered if he held Elizabeth like this. Maybe Peter got lonely when she wasn't around. Whenever Peter made Neal sleep in the master bedroom, Neal assumed Peter was thinking with his dick. But Peter didn't take advantage of many opportunities to grope him while they lay in bed together. It'd never occurred to Neal before that Peter might just like having him close.

Neal had to concede that sleeping with Peter was more intimate than having sex with him. Peter couldn't put on the stern master persona while he was mumbling about evil coffee machines. Neal wondered what he revealed about himself to Peter during nights like this. He'd never been able to come up with a reason for why he dreaded being made to sleep next to Peter, but now he knew: intimacy.

In some ways, this whole arrangement was easier without intimacy. More dignified, at least. But in other ways, it was easier _with_ some intimacy. It took some of the fight out of their relationship, and Neal was getting tired of fighting. He had four years of this to look forward to—a small sentence, all things considered, but long enough to wear him out if he spent the whole time fighting Peter.

He pressed up against Peter's warm body, and lay his head back down on the pillow, trapping Peter's arm beneath it.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neal endures a state-mandated inspection and learns a new trick in the bedroom.

It only took a month of studying for Neal to convince Peter and Elizabeth that he was ready to take the GED.

The state held testing days just for slaves. A GED was an inexpensive way of both increasing a slave's value and making a token effort at rehabilitation, so a lot of owners signed their slaves up if they didn't already have their high school diplomas.

Neal wasn't worried about the test. The anticipation came after, while he waited for his promised reward. Peter refused to even discuss it until after the test results came in, which Neal had to concede made sense.

When the results finally came in the mail, Peter just grinned, slapped Neal on the back, and said, "Good job, Neal! I think this calls for a celebration at Donatella's tonight."

It wasn't that Neal was ungrateful—he rarely got to eat dinner out, so it was a welcome treat. But he wanted his bank account. And no matter how he tried to hint, Peter would just brush him off.

Finally, after a couple weeks, Elizabeth came to him while he was cleaning the shower.

"Neal, you mind taking a break and coming downstairs? Peter and I have something for you."

She was smiling, so Neal allowed himself to be hopeful.

Downstairs, he joined them at the dining room table. Once he sat down, Peter handed him a shiny new debit card.

Neal grinned as he looked at it. It had his slave ID number and his name on it, as well as Peter and Elizabeth's names.

Peter gave him a smile, but when his expression turned serious, Neal knew exactly what he was in for.

"There are conditions."

Neal sighed. "Of course there are."

"We'll start out giving you an allowance of five dollars a week. If you keep behaving yourself, we'll up it to ten at the end of the month. You can't use this card to get cash out, and you won't have access to your account. But you can use the card to make purchases. If you buy anything over fifty dollars, the bank will call me or Elizabeth immediately to confirm that it's okay. You can't make any purchases over a hundred dollars. Elizabeth and I will be able to see all your activity, so don't buy anything you don't want us to know about."

"I get it, Peter. I won't go out and buy contraband with my five dollar allowance."

"Good."

The rules _did_ dampen Neal's excitement, however. Twenty dollars a month wouldn't pay for many art supplies. Forty dollars wasn't much better. And he could forget about keeping his paints stocked up _and_ buying himself some decent clothes. He would have to prioritize.

Elizabeth must have predicted this, because she smiled and said, "And don't worry—we don't expect you to pay for everything with your allowance. We'll still get you things sometimes, as a reward or present. The allowance is just to give you a little more independence and responsibility."

That was a little better. If he could convince them to buy him paints occasionally, he could manage the rest with the money they gave him.

And it was exciting to hold the card in his hand, and see his name on it. Even if it came with restrictions.

"Do I get to hang onto this?" he asked.

"For now," Peter said. "But if you don't use it responsibly—"

"You'll take it away. I know." Something occurred to him. "It'd be nice to have a wallet to carry it in."

Peter's lips twitched into a smile. "We'll see about getting you one."

 

* * *

 

January passed quickly. It wasn't difficult to figure out why—Neal was spending much more time out of the house these days, accompanying Peter and Elizabeth to work.

He missed some of the old solitude he'd had, and it was still a struggle to find time to complete his chores. But at least he didn't feel so boxed in. When he was out with the Burkes, he could almost fool himself into believing he was free at times, particularly when Elizabeth took him with her to scout out venues. When Neal was in his element, people listened to him. They saw him as more than just a servant and sex toy.

At the FBI headquarters, Neal was allowed to stop wearing the tag on his collar. The work was still dull for the most part. Peter continued to set him up in the boardroom with stacks of unsolved cases to go through. But even if mortgage fraud was bad, it was still more stimulating than scrubbing the kitchen floor.

One day in early February, the three of them were home and Elizabeth was going through the mail. "Oh, Neal," she said. "I can't believe it's been six months already."

Neal, who was cleaning out the refrigerator, looked up. Elizabeth was looking at a letter.

"What is it?" he asked.

"You're due for your first inspection this month."

Neal's eyes widened. "Inspection?"

Peter was sitting at the table, looking at the paper. Without glancing up, he said, "All slaves have to have inspections. First one is six months after being purchased by a new owner. After that, it's annual."

Neal remembered being examined at the processing center, and by the insurance appraiser. He'd hoped he was past all that.

"Is this really necessary?" he asked. "What if you guys vouch for me?"

"It's just a physical," Elizabeth said, giving him a reassuring smile. "It's for your own good—the doctor will make sure you're healthy and that you're not being mistreated."

That sounded better. The Burkes had taken Neal to the doctor for a physical after they bought him, and it had been painless enough. 

And he liked the thought that slave inspections were intended to hold owners accountable. It was nice to think that he'd have _some_ recourse if he was abused.

The following week, Elizabeth took him to the doctor. 

It was the same one he'd seen just after the Burkes purchased him. Neal was glad—last time, the man had been gentle with him.

The nurse who ushered him into the exam room instructed him to strip. No gown was offered. Such measures of privacy were considered unnecessary for slaves.

The nurse recorded Neal's vitals, drew blood, and gave him a cup for a urine sample. She turned away while he filled it, but it was a small mercy. Neal closed his eyes and tried to pretend he wasn't doing this in the middle of the exam room.

Finally, the nurse left him alone to wait. Neal sat on the edge of the exam table. The paper crinkled underneath him.

He recognized Dr. Morris when he came in with the nurse a few minutes later. He was a tall, large man with a round pink face and thinning blond hair.

"So, it's been six months already. How are you adjusting?"

"Great," Neal said. "In fact, I'll save you some time: I'm not being abused. My owners don't hurt me, and I get plenty of food and water."

Dr. Morris smiled. Looking at the chart he was holding, he said, "Speaking of food, I see you've gained five pounds since the last time you were here. That's good. I told your mistress you could stand to put on a few pounds." He set the chart down on the counter and looked at Neal. "Don't worry—this isn't the type of inspection you can pass or fail. And as long as they're not mistreating you, your owners won't fail it, either. The inspection is partly to make sure you're being treated okay, but it's also just a report on your health. There's no penalty for being honest."

Neal didn't want to take that for granted, but he returned the smile. "Good to know. But I feel okay."

Dr. Morris put on his stethoscope and pressed the cold disk against Neal's chest. "Nothing concerning you?"

"No. My health's been good."

"Do you get much exercise? Slaves can be cooped up a lot."

"I go running sometimes when the weather's good." An idea occurred to him, and he added, "Though, I wouldn't mind going to a gym sometime. I like swimming."

If he understood things correctly, Dr. Morris would be making recommendations. Neal might as well try to get some things he wanted out of this.

Dr. Morris moved around to Neal's back. He asked Neal to cough, and listened to his lungs.

"Do you have sex with your owners?"

Neal had expected to be grilled about his life, but the question was still unpleasant. "I do."

"Anyone else?"

"They're not big on sharing."

"What about someone they don't know about?" the doctor asked gently.

"No one."

"Well, even so, we'll need to do some tests, and a rectal exam. It's standard."

The genital exam that followed was no more undignified than anything he'd experienced in the past. At least this man was a doctor, and not a slave trainer or appraiser. But when the nurse produced a swab, Neal tensed.

"Is that really necessary?" he asked. "You didn't do this last time."

"Because you'd been tested already at the processing center. Relax—it'll be quick and you'll hardly feel it."

Neal watched while the doctor inserted the long, thin swab into his dick. He winced and sucked in his breath. It stung.

He wondered if this was standard for all slaves, or just for the ones sold for sex.

It seemed to take forever. Neal sat frozen, afraid to move even a muscle while the thing was inside his dick. When it was finally done, Dr. Morris gave him a sympathetic smile.

"I know it's uncomfortable, but better safe than sorry. You did well."

The one good thing about the penile swab was that the rectal exam was mild by comparison. Neal lay on his side while Dr. Morris probed him.

Finally, he heard the doctor take off his gloves.

Neal was allowed to sit up. He answered more questions about his lifestyle while Dr. Morris jotted down his responses.

Finally, the doctor said, "All right, Neal, I think we're done here. We'll have to run tests, of course, but everything looks fine. And it sounds you're adjusting well. You can get dressed and go out in the waiting room. I'll just speak to your mistress for a minute."

Later, when Neal and Elizabeth were in the car, he asked, "What did the doctor say to you?"

After Neal came out, Elizabeth had gone in to speak to the doctor alone.

"He said you appear to be in great shape. Of course, he'll have to wait for the test results before the inspection is complete, but the exam went as well as it could have."

"I didn't expect them to be so...thorough." Neal involuntarily placed his hands over his lap. A year seemed too soon to have another swab inside his dick.

"They have to be, honey. Especially for companion slaves."

Companion slave—the polite, technical term for a sex slave. At least Neal didn't have to worry much about safety. The Burkes showed no interest in sharing him with others. 

Once, when Neal had been working for Adler about a month, he was invited to a cocktail party at Adler's house. It'd been an honor to be included so quickly. But Adler's world was still foreign to him, then, and Neal hadn't known what to think when he realized that one of Adler's slaves, a man not much older than Neal, was holed up in the study, sucking off some of the guests. Adler's friends treated it like a professional bonding ritual, like playing racquetball. Neal didn't see what happened, but apparently a guest who'd had too much to drink got rough, and the slave retreated to the kitchen as soon as possible.

It was tough enough being a sex slave for one or two people. Even people like the Burkes, who never got drunk or lost their tempers.

Thinking about this put Neal in an unhappy reverie, and it didn't lift until they arrived at the caterer where Elizabeth had an appointment for a tasting.

Neal had been excited for this all day. It had almost been enough to ease his nerves over the inspection.

He thought that was why Elizabeth was bringing him along. It was a reward.

Inside, Elizabeth greeted the owner and said, "This is my slave, Neal. I thought he could help me, if you don't mind."

The other woman smiled warmly at Neal. "Of course."

No one in Elizabeth's business seemed surprised by Neal. He supposed that between the commonness of slave servers and personal assistants like Naomi, most people in the event planning industry were used to interacting with slaves. 

He and Elizabeth spent the next hour tasting caviar and French cheeses. He certainly couldn't criticize Elizabeth's taste in rewards.

 

* * *

 

"I'm starting to think I should be jealous," Peter said.

Elizabeth moaned. "Of him, or me?"

"Both of you, I think."

While they talked, Neal had his face buried between Elizabeth's legs. He spread her open with his thumbs and licked the soft, pink folds of skin. He licked his way up to her clit, and a large swipe with his tongue made Elizabeth moan again. It was a muffled sound, and Neal knew without being able to see that she and Peter were kissing.

The three of them were naked in the master bedroom. If Neal moved his eyes to the left, he could see Peter's hard cock. If he strained them upward, he could see Peter's hand caressing one of Elizabeth's breasts.

It was a quiet Saturday. After the rush of Christmas and New Year's, Elizabeth finally had a weekend off. Often, on days like today, Peter and Elizabeth preferred to be alone. Today, they'd cajoled Neal into the bedroom with them. After his inspection the previous week, they'd given his dick a few days to recover from the testing he'd been subjected to. Today was making up for lost time.

Neal kept circling his tongue around Elizabeth's clit, and, quickly, she gasped and cried out against Peter's mouth. As her orgasm passed, Neal pulled back.

Sitting up, Elizabeth put her palm on Neal's cheek and gently steered his head over to Peter's cock. Neal opened his mouth to accept it.

He could taste the pre-come on the tip of Peter's cock. While he diligently sucked, Elizabeth rubbed his back.

Abruptly, Peter pushed Neal up. Breathless, he said, "No more. I have something I want to try." 

Elizabeth kissed Peter on the cheek. "I'll be right back, Hon. I want to get cleaned up."

Peter gave her a peck on the lips. "All right."

As she got up and headed out into the hall, Peter got the bottle of lube out of the nightstand drawer. He guided Neal onto his stomach.

Neal spread his legs without being told. He'd half-expected this. A blow job was fine most days, but Peter had been making use of his ass more and more. Neal's hard cock was trapped under his stomach, and he squirmed a bit, trying to find a comfortable position.

He stilled when Peter pushed a lubed finger into his hole. Peter did it too quickly and hit a painful angle, and Neal winced.

"You know, it feels better when you do it slowly. And curl your finger more."

Peter froze. Then he did what Neal suggested, and started to work his finger in and out at a slow, gentle pace.

"You've been practicing, haven't you?" Peter said. Neal couldn't see his face, but he could hear his smirk.

"What makes you say that?"

"Oh, come on. You've never told me what you like before. I like this new twist. Have you been using the plugs?"

"Why? Do you want to gloat?"

Peter chuckled. "I knew you'd like the plugs if you gave them a chance. I mean it, though—this is good. I like hearing what turns you on."

Neal didn't argue with him, because what Peter was doing with his finger right now really _did_ feel good. Why shouldn't he get something out of this arrangement? He didn't know if the pleasure was worth his pride, but he hadn't done such a great job of hanging onto his pride, anyway.

If he could train Peter to make the sex more to his liking, then perhaps serving his time wouldn't be so bad. If he couldn't avoid this, he could make it better.

After a few minutes of preparation, Neal expected to feel Peter's weight on his back. He expected the harsh stretch of Peter's cock entering him. But instead, Peter lay down on his back beside Neal. He squirted some lube on his palm and started to slick up his cock.

Confused, Neal lifted his head. "Why are you lying down?"

"I want you to ride me."

Neal pushed himself up to his knees. "So, now you want me to do all the work?"

"Yep. C'mon—hop on."

Neal looked at Peter's cock and tried to decide how to proceed. What Peter was asking for was simple in theory, but the execution was more difficult. Neal wasn't sure how to get the cock in his ass. 

He straddled Peter's hips, and he could feel the tip of Peter's cock grazing his buttocks. He reached back blindly and felt around until he grasped the hard shaft. Gently, he guided it to where he thought his asshole was, and, very slowly, started to lower himself down.

The tip of the cock jabbed him in the perineum, and he shot back up to adjust. The second time he went down, it pressed against his hole. He didn't want to press down any more. It was one thing to lie on his back or stomach while Peter put it in him. It was another to do it to himself, and contend with his nerves. He was loath to admit it, but there were benefits to letting Peter have control.

But it had to be done. He pressed down as much as he dared, and the head of Peter's cock went inside him.

Peter gave him an approving smile. "There. That's good."

Peter put his hands on Neal's hips, smearing lube on this skin. But Neal had lube on his own hand from guiding Peter's cock, so he would just have to put up with it.

Neal supported himself on trembling knees. If he lifted up, the cock would fall out of his ass. But he didn't dare lower himself any further. He didn't know if he would be able to handle the length of Peter's cock if he fully seated himself on it.

"Now," Peter said, "when you're ready, just start moving up and down. You're going to have to fuck yourself on my dick."

Neal carefully lowered himself down an inch and then rose back up. It was easier than he'd expected. He leaned forward and did it again, more quickly.

"That's it," Peter said.

Neal put his hands on Peter's stomach, giving himself a little more leverage. "I thought I was supposed to like getting my ass fucked because I didn't have to do anything."

"Now that you're used to it, we can challenge you a little more. You like a challenge."

Neal started a slow rhythm. He discovered that it wasn't too difficult if he kept his knees and arms in place and moved his hips up and down like a piston.

Peter squeezed his hip. "You're going to have to go faster."

Neal gave him a dirty look. "I thought I was the one doing the work."

"Yeah, and I'm still the boss."

Picking up the pace was more difficult. Bouncing up and down wasn't the most natural movement. Especially not like this. He shot up too far, and Peter's dick fell out of his hole. Neal reached back and gingerly pushed it back in place, trying—and failing—to avoid touching the part that had been inside him.

But when Neal got into the swing of things, he realized this position had some benefits. He got to control the angle and depth of penetration, and the strength of the thrusts.

"You know," Neal said, trying to keep his breath, "my birthday's coming up soon."

"Your real birthday?"

Neal nodded.

"And I suppose you deserve lots of presents, huh?"

Neal grinned. "I work hard. I think I deserve something."

Peter narrowed his eyes. "Show me how hard you can work."

By now, Neal's body was covered in a light sheen of sweat. His hands slipped on Peter's stomach, and limp, damp hair hung over his eyes.

He barely noticed when the door opened, but he heard the sound of Elizabeth's bare feet on the wood floor. She walked around to the other side of the bed and sat down. Neal didn't look at her, but out of the corner of his eye he could see that she'd put on a short satin robe.

"Mm," she said. "I'm glad I came back to see this."

Neal glanced at her and saw her eyeing him. Her eyes moved up and down the length of his body. It looked like she liked the sight, even though Neal felt ridiculous. He couldn’t imagine how he looked, bouncing up and down on Peter's dick with his own hard cock slapping against his stomach. Sex always looked ridiculous. Though, if anyone could make it look good, Neal knew he could.

Neal was reaching the brink of orgasm more quickly than he'd expected. There was no way to stop it without slowing his pace, and his effort to do that was met with a slap on the ass from Peter. Oh well. If Peter didn't want him to slow down, he couldn't complain about it when Neal came on him. Neal let himself go. He threw his head back and squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them, he saw that a few squirts of come had landed on Peter's stomach.

Grunting, Peter said, "Don't stop now. I'm close."

Neal realized that his tempo had slowed. He wanted to stop—he was tired, and being fucked didn't feel as good after an orgasm. Now that he'd come, Neal was aware of the burn in his thigh muscles, and the soreness in his ass from the friction (he thought he could use a little more lube, but he wasn't going to stop now to reapply it).

But he could tell from the strained look on Peter's face that he _was_ close. Neal was exhausted, and he felt like curling up for a post-coital nap. But he mustered up the energy to pick up the pace.

A minute later, his efforts were rewarded when Peter came. His come mixed with the traces of Neal's.

Neal gingerly pulled himself off of Peter's cock, and then collapsed on the bed. Elizabeth was immediately at his side, brushing his sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes and kissing him on the cheek.

"That was a great performance," she said.

Peter was wiping the come off his stomach with a tissue. He paused and looked at Neal. "Yeah, Neal. That wasn't bad at all."

Neal didn't know if he should feel insulted by their approval, or proud of himself.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A difficult day at the FBI offices leads to trouble for Neal. Neal makes a disturbing discovery that makes him question Peter's trustworthiness.

On Monday, Neal joined Peter at work. Peter spent most of the morning in his office, making phone calls. Neal quickly bored of looking over the stack of mortgage fraud cases Peter had given him, and he wandered down to the bullpen to look for something more interesting.

Jones was sitting at his desk, and Diana was standing beside him. They were watching something on Jones's computer.

Neal made a beeline over to them. "What are you guys watching?"

They both turned their heads toward him. They gave him brief skeptical looks, but neither told him to get back to his assigned work.

"Security footage," Jones said. "The other night, someone stole a rare diamond from a store, right in the middle of some sort of fashion show. The guy caused a diversion and used the activity as a cover to get into a back room and crack the safe."

"We got it on camera," Diana said, "but the guy was good. He was careful not to show his face."

Neal leaned in and looked at the footage. The grainy video showed a man stepping out into a hallway. He turned his head to avoid the camera, and there was a glint of metal.

"Is he wearing a collar?" Neal asked.

"Looks like it," Diana said. "We think he impersonated a slave to avoid attracting attention."

"Either that," Jones said, "or he really is a slave."

"I doubt it," Neal said, "It'd be too big of a risk."

"If he's an impostor," Diana said, "maybe we can find out where he got the collar."

"It won't be a real one," Neal said. "Look for people who bought demo collars recently."

Jones looked at him. "Demo collars?"

"Yeah. In most states, it's a misdemeanor for a free person to wear a locking slave collar. A lot of manufacturers make demo versions that don't actually lock, so they aren't restricted to using slave as models. And some stores keep them on hand because they're easy to try on. Besides, a lot of the big manufacturers sell overseas, and most European countries don't require locking collars anymore. So they make both locking and non-locking varieties to sell in different countries."

Diana grinned. "Is there anything you're not an expert on?"

"What can I say? Million-dollar industries interest me. Besides, recent life changes have made collars relevant."

Jones looked up in the direction of the elevators and nodded. "Sara Ellis is here. Peter said she'd be coming by to talk about the stolen Dali."

Neal frowned as Sara opened the glass door and strode into the office. Peter hadn't mentioned anything about this to _him_.

"The one taken from the Met?" Neal asked.

"Yeah," Jones said. "Interpol had a lead on it in Switzerland, but it turned out to be false. Time to go back to the drawing board."

It'd been a couple months since the theft. Time wasn't on the FBI's side—or the insurance company's. Neal hadn't known that Sterling Bosch insured the painting. It probably drove Sara crazy to have it missing for so long.

Peter must have seen Sara, too, because he emerged from his office and came down the stairs just in time to greet her.

"Sara," he said, "glad you could stop by. You said on the phone that you might have some information?"

Sara kept her face directed toward Peter, but her eyes darted in Neal's direction. "I might. It's nothing solid, but maybe combined with your intel...."

"It's worth a shot. Listen, I'm sorry, but I have to take a conference call in five minutes. Diana can start working with you in the conference room, and you can pick Neal's brain. I'll join you as soon as I can."

Now, Sara looked at Neal and smiled. "Perfect."

Diana led Sara up to the conference room. Peter started to follow them upstairs, to go to his office, but Neal put a hand on his arm to stop him.

"What is it?" Peter asked. "I've got to get on that call."

Lowering his voice, Neal said, "You can't expect me to work with Sara."

"Why not?"

"Why not? Are you serious? She hates me and would probably like to see my sentence doubled for allegedly taking that Raphael. She won't want to hear anything I have to say unless it's incriminating."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Cowboy up. If you want to come to work with me, that means dealing with people who investigated your crimes. So go up there and play nice."

Neal let his shoulders slump, and he followed Peter up the stairs. They parted ways, Peter going back to his office and Neal heading into the boardroom. Before entering, he stood up straighter and pasted a smile on his face.

Sara had set her briefcase on the table and was pulling out a large file. Diana, who was standing beside her, looked up.

"Neal, could you get some coffee?" she asked.

Sara glanced up for a second and said, "I like cream in mine. No sugar."

Neal wanted to make a comment about how they had clerks who could get coffee, but he bit his tongue. He liked Diana, and he didn't mind getting coffee for _her_.

He turned around and went back downstairs. He filled three mugs with coffee. He knew Diana liked a small amount of cream and sugar in hers. Next, he put a little cream in his own. Finally, he poured a large serving of cream in Sara's coffee. He watched it turn the coffee a light beige, and then poured some more. He stirred all three cups with a small, satisfied smile.

He carried the coffees upstairs slowly to avoid spilling them. Finally, he reached the boardroom and put them down on the table.

Sara looked at hers and frowned. "Is this supposed to be coffee or milk?"

Neal shrugged. "You said you wanted cream, right?"

Sara just glared at him. Neal smiled. He sat down across from her.

Sara spread out the contents of the file on the table. Neal grabbed one of the items closest to him and studied it. It was a statement from one of the security guards at the Met.

"One of the guards was on paternity leave around the time of the robbery," Sara said, "so no one spent much time questioning him about the events leading up to it. I talked to him the other day, and he remembers a couple guys spending a lot of time looking at the Dali a few weeks before the robbery. It might be a coincidence, or it could be a lead."

"Any pictures of these guys?"

Sara pulled some grainy black and white pictures from the file. "Here, from the security footage."

Diana looked at the picture. "We can run this through our databases, see if there are any hits. Mind if I go scan this?"

"Be my guest." 

Neal turned his head, following Diana with his eyes while she got up and left the boardroom. 

There was another copy of the photo sticking out of Sara's file. Neal reached over and grabbed it.

"These guys are playing the angles of the camera," he said, leaning back in his chair. "You can barely see their faces."

"Still, might be enough for a match."

"Even if it is, it's been a couple months," he said. "Whoever took the Dali has a long head start."

"If we find the thieves, they might be willing to tell us where the painting is."

"Was that your strategy for recovering the Raphael?"

Sara gave him a cold smile. 

With a shrug, Neal said, "Of course, maybe it hasn't been sold yet. Could still be in the city."

She nodded slowly. "Is that what you'd do? Hang onto it?"

"How should I know? I was never convicted of art theft."

"Yeah, you got off easy."

"Don't know if I'd put it that way." He slipped a finger under his collar. "I could do without this thing weighing me down."

She folded her arms on the table and leaned over. "You know, someone else, I might have more sympathy. But you always find a way to take advantage and come out clean, and even though I trust Peter can handle you, I also know you've probably found a dozen different ways to still get what you want." She turned her eyes back to the array of papers spread out in front of her. "Now, any more thoughts on this case?"

Neal leaned back in his chair. He tapped his toes on the floor.

"Oh, you're not getting my help that easily."

"Funny, I was standing right there when you master told you to help me."

"Like you said, I'm not that easily controlled."

"So if I told Peter you're not cooperating, you wouldn't get in trouble?" A smile crept onto her face.

"I'm not worried," Neal said with a shrug. "Go ahead and tell him."

Before Sara could call his bluff, Diana returned.

"Thanks," Diana said, handing Sara the photo. "I don't know if we'll get a match, but it's a start. I'll talk to Peter about getting our own copy of the footage from the museum."

A minute later, Peter appeared in the doorway.

"Sorry about that," he said. "Conference call is over. Was Neal helpful?"

"I'm not sure if I'd say that," Sara said with a tight smile, "but I think the visit has been productive."

Neal rocked back in his chair while Sara relayed her information to Peter. They discussed the developments for a few minutes. Then, Sara got up and Peter and Diana walked her out. Neal stayed behind.

A few minutes later, Peter came back into the boardroom, hands on his hips. He didn't look pleased. Neal had a suspicion as to why, but looked up at Peter with an innocent expression.

"Sara told me you refused to help her. Said you were rude to her."

"Well, if she got that impression—"

"She also said that you told her I'd let you get away with it." Peter raised his eyebrows. When Neal didn't respond, he said, "Well? Do you have something to say for yourself?"

"I told you I didn't want to work with her."

Peter turned and leaned against the table. He folded his arms. "Listen," he said, his tone softening, "I know Sara doesn't care for you. Maybe she riled you up. But you have to be on your best behavior. You've been complaining for weeks that I don't give you interesting work. Well, the Met case is interesting. But if you're going to have an attitude, I won't let you help anymore. Got it?"

"Got it."

"Why don't you go cool your heels in my office for a while?"

Neal got up and obeyed. He felt like he was being sent into time-out, but at least Peter's office had stuff he could look at. And if he wanted Peter's attention, he could put his feet up on the desk.

Peter didn't follow him in, but instead went down to the bullpen. So Neal took Peter's chair and surveyed the desk.

Usually, Peter kept his desk tidy. Today, there was a pile of files. Neal started to thumb through them. Peter gave him the boring cases, so he must have been handling the interesting ones on his own.

Near the top of the stack, the edge of a photo caught Neal's attention. He picked up the file and spread it open on the desk.

On top, there was a color print-out of a photograph. At a glance, Neal might not have noticed it. But he recognized the green and blue scarf the woman was wearing. Closer inspection confirmed it: the photo was of Kate.

She was walking outside a building Neal didn't recognize, holding a cellphone to her ear. The photo had been taken from across the street.

Neal's chest was pounding. He thumbed through the rest of the file. There wasn't much, but it all had to do with Kate—a list of aliases she'd used, more photos, credit card records....

At first, Neal thought the file was old. Leftover stuff from when Peter tracked Kate in order to find him. But some of the credit card transactions were from only a couple weeks ago.

Peter was tracking Kate. Or investigating her. When Neal was arrested, his lawyer assured him that the feds weren't going after Kate. But what if they'd decided to try to connect her to his crimes? Or believed she'd lead them to his stash?

Neal swallowed down bile. He felt like he could be sick. He'd trusted Peter. Now he had to find a way to warn Kate, and maybe Mozzie, too.

Looking up, Neal saw Peter coming up the stairs. Neal quickly put the file back together and stuck it back in the pile. He grabbed another file and opened it, pretending to browse through it as Peter came into the office.

"See anything good?"

Neal looked up. "This is a case about fake designer jeans. Not really my specialty."

"Oh, jeans aren't good enough for you?" Peter motioned for Neal to get out of chair.

Neal closed the file and got up. He walked around the desk, and as he sat down in the other chair, Peter walked over to the window, hands behind his back.

"You know," he said, "you're going to have to apologize to Sara the next time you see her."

Neal's eyes were focused on the desk, on the corner of Kate's file that was sticking out. It looked like all the other files, but Neal knew exactly which one it was.

"And what if I'm not sorry?"

"Then fake it."

Peter turned around, betraying that he had a small smile on his face. Rather than annoyed, he looked amused by Neal's imprudence. On an ordinary day, Neal would have taken advantage of that and played with it. But he wasn't feeling playful.

Neal propped his elbow on his knee and rested his chin on his hand.

"Everything all right?" Peter asked.

"Yeah, fine. Why wouldn't it be?"

"You look like you're sulking. Don't tell me Sara got to you."

"I'm not sulking. I'm just tired."

Peter sat down at the desk and moved the mouse to wake up the computer. After a couple minutes of looking at something on the screen, he said, "Hey, could you go grab me the file on the McCarthy mortgage fraud case? It should be on the shelf."

"Don't you have clerks for that?"

"I have you. Now go."

With a sigh, Neal got up. He decided to take his time. It was petty, but at least it made a point. 

Neal concealed himself between the shelves, out of sight of Peter's office, and busied himself browsing through the files. After ten minutes, Peter appeared.

"What are you doing?" he asked. "I sent you down here to get that file."

"I know. I'm getting it." Neal held up the file, which he'd been holding tucked under his arm.

With a frustrated growl, Peter took it.

Neal didn't follow him back to his office. Not right away. When he did go back, he found Hughes there, talking to Peter. As Neal stepped inside, he realized they were talking about him.

"We can play it by ear," Peter was saying. "Neal's been a big help, but I don't want to give him a lot of responsibility. At least not right away."

"Of course," Hughes said. "And you know your slave best. If you don't think Caffrey is up to the challenge...."

"What challenge?" Neal asked.

Peter glared at him, a clear signal to be quiet. To Hughes, he said, "It's not that. Neal is more than capable. But he needs to prove that he's reliable."

"Well, Peter, I just your judgment. Just keep it in mind."

After Hughes left, Neal said, "What were you talking about?"

"He suggested that I could take you with me in the field occasionally. To use your expertise."

Neal's mood momentarily brightened. "Sounds better than staying here, looking through old cases."

"I'm sure it does. But I gave you a chance to help with a bigger case today, and you responded by causing trouble for Sara. Like I told Reese, you need to prove you deserve the responsibility. That I can trust you to handle it."

Neal frowned. "Right, because _I'm_ the only one who needs to prove myself."

Peter raised his eyebrows. "You're the convicted felon. Are you suggesting something?"

Neal shook his head. "Listen, I'm tired. I'd like to go home early today."

"That's great. What do you expect? You want me to take a break to drive you home? You want me to call El and have her leave her consultation to come get you? Drink some coffee. If you want to take a nap, you can put your head on the desk."

"You know, I'm not some toy you can use when it's convenient for you. Has it occurred to you that I don't have a lot of incentive to work for you right now? Or to prove myself to you?"

Peter's expression grew stony. "You're my slave. That's incentive enough. Would you rather stay home all day like you used to?"

Neal didn't answer.

"Listen," Peter said, "I don't know what's gotten into you, but I don't like this attitude. Is there a problem I need to know about?"

Neal bit his lip. "I want to ask you something," he said.

"What?"

"If Kate was in some sort of trouble, would you tell me?"

"Of course. Why? Did you hear something? Is that why you're upset?"

"No, I haven't heard anything. It's just...with that letter she sent me, I've wondered if everything is okay. There's nothing I should know about?"

"If there is, I'm not aware of it. Listen, don't worry about Kate. There are more important things for you focus on right now."

Right. Like proving himself to Peter, and Peter's boss. It was ridiculous. Neal had to behave and prove he could be trusted. But Peter had just lied to his face, and there was nothing Neal could do about it.

Peter left the office again, leaving Neal alone. He could hear him go next door to Hughes' office.

Neal couldn't take it anymore. He needed to think, and the walls of the office and the noise from the bullpen were making him claustrophobic.

He got up and hurried down the stairs. No one seemed to pay him any attention as he slipped out the door and pushed the elevator button. He looked back, and saw Peter still in Hughes' office. His back was turned, and he couldn't see Neal.

The elevator doors opened. Neal got on and immediately hit the button to close the doors before hitting the button for the lobby.

When he reached the lobby, he walked through casually and confidently. He didn't know if the security guard was supposed to stop him if he tried to leave by himself, but Neal didn't want to give the man a reason to.

Once he made it outside, he breathed a sigh of relief.

Part of Neal was aware that he could get in real trouble for this. It wasn't like he was escaping, but going AWOL was still forbidden. Peter could have Neal written up for this. Put an official citation on his record, maybe even punish him with a court-ordered spanking or an extra couple weeks added to his sentence.

But Peter wouldn't want that sort of attention, or the public acknowledgement of his inability to control Neal.

And right now, Neal didn't care what Peter did to him. He needed to get out, clear his head. The cool March air did wonders for that, and he started feeling better as soon as he was outside. It was chilly without his jacket, but he didn't care.

He didn't have a destination in mind—he just walked. It was amazing how free he felt walking down the sidewalk without someone leading him on a leash.

He didn't know if he should confront Peter about what he'd found. Would it make a difference? Perhaps he could talk to Elizabeth.

Ten minutes—and several blocks—later, he finally heard Peter calling his name. He didn't stop or slow down, but he didn't speed up or try to evade him, either.

Soon, he heard Peter's footsteps behind him. Peter grabbed his arm.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Neal stopped and turned. Peter's fingers dug into his arm; he'd probably have bruises later.

"I'm taking a walk. I'm not allowed to get some fresh air?"

Peter pursed his lips. His nostrils flared. "Come on," he said, almost growling. "We're going back."

He led Neal back to the FBI building, holding his arm the whole way. He didn't let go until they were in the elevator. Neal rubbed at his arm under the guise of straightening his sleeve.

He stole a glance at Peter. Peter's gaze was fixed on the elevator doors. His expression was cold but otherwise unreadable. Neal's recklessness had ebbed, and now he was thinking about how he'd talk his way out of this.

When they reached their floor, Peter wordlessly walked to his office. Neal understood that he was supposed to follow, and did. He could tell when he'd crossed the line, and he wasn't prepared to invoke Peter's anger any more right now.

Peter stood with his hands on his hips, facing the window. For a minute, which felt like eternity, he didn't say anything.

Neal couldn't stand the silence. When he could talk, he could charm his way out of almost anything.

"Look, I'm sorry. I just needed some fresh air, and I didn't think. I figured with the GPS tracker in my collar, it'd be easy for you to check where I was. I didn't think it was a big deal."

Peter's head whipped over his shoulder. "Oh, really? It didn't occur to you at all?"

Neal swallowed.

Peter turned around. "If you just wanted some air, why didn't you ask me?"

"I—"

"No," Peter said, waving a hand. "Don't. You knew damn well you couldn't leave the building without permission. So, what were you doing?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Were you trying to meet with someone? Going somewhere behind my back?"

"No, of course not." He cocked his head. "Come on, Peter, do you really think I'd take a risk like that?"

"Then what? Are you still upset I made you work with Sara? Is that it? I know you've been sulking. Don't tell me you haven't been."

Neal frowned. He had a damn good reason to be upset, but Peter just assumed it was pettiness. 

"I told you—I needed some air."

Peter looked down and shook his head. "Do you have any idea how bad you made me look just now? The whole office saw that I didn't know where you were."

"I don't see why that's my fault. You never said I wasn't allowed to take a walk."

He knew he was pushing it—Peter may not have explicitly stated it, but the rule was strongly implied. But still, it wasn't his fault. And he didn't see why he should care, either. So what if Peter got embarrassed? It served him right for expecting Neal to make him look good in the first place.

Peter glared at him, and Neal started to regret his last comment. Before Neal could react, Peter was at his side and gave him two hard slaps on the ass.

For a second, Neal was frozen in shock. As he recovered, he glanced over his shoulder. He couldn't tell if anyone had seen the spanking, but they'd definitely heard it—several sets of eyes were covertly looking in the direction of the office.

"Peter," Neal said, his voice hushed, "is that really necessary? There's a glass wall...."

"Oh, so now you worry about appearances."

Neal shifted his weight on his feet. "This is cruel and unusual."

"No, it's what people expect me to do. You pushed me, Neal. Now I have to show that I have control. And if you keep pushing me, I'll take you to the interrogation room and give you a real spanking."

Neal didn't say anything. He would never live it down if Peter made good on that threat.

There was a knock on the door frame. Neal looked and saw Hughes standing at the door.

"Everything okay here?" Hughes asked. "Got things under control with your slave, now?"

"Yes, sir," Peter said. "There was a little misunderstanding about the rules. I clarified it, and Neal knows what's expected of him now."

"That's good," Hughes said with a nod. "Glad to hear the problem is taken care of."

After Hughes left, Peter turned back to Neal. He put his hands on his hips.

"See? You embarrassed me in front of my boss."

"He didn't seem to have a problem."

"That's because I dealt with the problem. And I'll deal with it some more when we get home." He paused. More softly, he added, "If you have an excuse for your behavior, tell me. It might mitigate the punishment."

Neal didn't respond. He doubted accusing Peter of stalking Kate would do much good right now.

Peter sighed and shook his head. "Fine, then." He gestured to the chair in front of the desk. "Have a seat. You're going to spend the rest of the day looking over case files where I can see you."

Neal obeyed without argument. At least they only had a few hours left before it'd be time to go home. He wasn't sure if it was better this way or not—he wouldn't have to face the rest of the office after they'd just witnessed him getting spanked, but he wouldn't be able to neutralize his embarrassment by playing it off as no big deal, either.

When Peter had to step out of the office for a minute, Jones came in and gave Neal a cup of coffee. Neal accepted it gratefully. At least the others weren't avoiding him completely. He'd come to like most of the agents, and they were nice to him. If it had occurred to him that storming out could damage that progress, he might have restrained himself.

He hoped Hughes wouldn't make him wear an evidence tag again.

He'd been too rash today. He would have to be more careful, particularly if Kate was in danger.

 

* * *

 

When they got home, Elizabeth was out. She'd called Peter a bit ago to tell him that she was held up with a client. 

Peter didn't waste any time getting down to business. He let Neal get a drink and run to the bathroom, and when Neal came downstairs, he was waiting by the sofa with the paddle in his hand. The gag was sitting on the coffee table.

"You ready?" Peter asked him.

"Ready as I'll ever be." There was no point delaying it.

"Take off your clothes. I think some time naked in the corner after this will do you a lot of good."

Neal disagreed, but he didn't imagine that his opinion mattered much right now. He silently got undressed while Peter watched.

Neal placed his clothes over the back of a chair, and Peter sat on the sofa. He tapped his leg with the paddle.

"Come on. Over my knee."

Neal walked over and bent himself over Peter's lap. He braced himself for the inevitable. The first strike of the paddle was always the hardest. But this time, when it came, something felt off. Like the paddle was more flexible, somehow. Peter made a noise of disbelief and annoyance, and several seconds passed with no more strikes.

"Get up, Neal. Take a look at this."

Neal braced his hands on Peter's thigh and pushed himself to his feet. Peter was holding the paddle, which was now bent at a forty-five degree angle. He placed a finger on the end on the paddle and wiggled it back and forth.

"It broke?" Neal said. "You seriously broke the paddle?"

" _I_ didn't break it. Your hard ass did."

"Don't blame me. I never asked to be paddled. And I could've told you that you were doing it too hard."

"Unbelievable...." Peter muttered. "I only bought this thing a few months ago."

"I guess you can't paddle me, then."

Maybe the paddle could be fixed with some duct tape around the middle, but Neal wasn't going to suggest that. He was just fine with getting Peter's hand, instead.

"I guess not."

Peter seemed to think for a minute, which made Neal nervous. What was he waiting for? Was he thinking of trying to fix the paddle? Finally, he stood up and reached for his belt buckle.

Neal's eyes widened. "What are you doing?"

"Since I can't use the paddle, I'm going to try my belt."

"That's not fair. It'll hurt more."

Neal didn't actually know that, but he assumed the belt would be worse. It couldn't be _better_.

"Maybe. So I'm only going to give you ten."

" _Only_ ten? Can't we negotiate on this?"

"Okay," Peter said calmly. "I can give you fifteen, if you want. Or twenty."

Neal swallowed. "Ten is fine."

Peter nodded. "Good choice."

He pulled his belt free and folded it in half twice to create a small loop. Then he sat down and beckoned Neal back over his lap.

Neal moved more slowly this time. He'd never been hit with a belt, and he was keen to keep avoiding it.

Slowly, he draped himself across Peter's knees. He heard the belt swish through the air, and then there was a loud crack as it hit his ass. A sharp sting radiated through his flesh, and Neal sucked air through his teeth.

"That hurt," he said.

"I know," Peter said.

Neal's fears were correct—it _was_ worse than the paddle. At least in this position, the belt wasn't as long. If Peter used the full length of the belt to whip him, it would be even worse.

But that was a small mercy. He still had nine lashes to go.

"Relax," Peter said. "If you tense up, it'll just hurt more."

Neal wasn't in the mood to take Peter's advice, and even if he was, he didn't think he could stop himself from tensing his buttocks.

Peter tsked at him and said, "Your choice."

Lashes two and three were delivered to his lower buttocks in rapid succession. Neal bit his lip to stop himself from crying out. Number four landed on his thighs and he jumped.

Peter paused for a moment. Neal shuddered with anticipation. He was about to snap at Peter to get it over with when number five landed higher up on his ass. The pain flared across both cheeks before fading to a dull burn.

Six and seven landed at the bottom of his cheeks again. The skin was already tender from the earlier lashes, and Neal hissed in pain.

Neal squeezed his eyes shut. He focused on counting the blows.

The final three were given rapidly on the crown of his ass and then, to his relief, he heard Peter set the belt aside.

"All right. Spanking's done. You can get up."

Neal stood. He wanted to rub the sting out of his ass, but he didn't want to display any more indignity than he had to.

Peter stood and said, "Your punishment isn't over yet. Wait here."

"Why? What are you going to do?"

"Just do as you're told."

As Neal obeyed, Peter walked off in the direction of the kitchen. Neal looked back and watched him disappear.

What was he doing? He'd said the spanking was over, so he couldn't be fetching a wooden spoon to finish the job.

It seemed like an eternity before Peter returned. He was holding something, but Neal couldn’t tell what it was.

Peter sat back down on the sofa. "Okay, back over my knee."

"I thought you said the spanking is over."

"I thought I told you to stop questioning my orders."

Slowly, Neal obeyed. He didn't like this....

Peter spread Neal's cheeks. Neal tensed, bracing himself. He expected to feel Peter's fingers, but instead, he felt something firm, wet, and cold pushing against his hole.

He flinched. "What _is_ that?" Before his surprise wore off enough for him to react, Peter had the offending object lodged inside his ass.

"It's ginger, Neal."

"Why is it _cold_?"

"Because it's been in the refrigerator."

That was an understatement. He was freezing.

Neal had noticed several fingers of ginger stored in the vegetable bin, but had thought little of it. "I thought that was for cooking," he said. If he'd known the truth, he would have made a large batch of ginger chicken to get rid of it.

"No, it's for discipline. They call this 'figging.' You peel the ginger and—"

"I know what figging is," Neal snapped.

"Oh," Peter said brightly, "then you know what to expect. The good thing about ginger is it's supposed to hurt without doing any damage."

Neal squirmed. The shocking coldness was starting to wear off, but it was replaced by a far more ominous warmth.

"I think I changed my mind. I'll take more of the belt."

"You already took it. This is phase two." Peter twisted the ginger, sending a wave of warmth through Neal's ass. "Relax. You're doing a good job. You're a natural at having things in your ass."

Neal squirmed. The ginger was really starting to heat up. "Then why are you wasting your time hurting it?"

"No. You're not getting out of this by convincing me to fuck you. We're not going to reward bad behavior."

Neal's face grew almost as hot as his ass. He wasn't sure which was worse—that he'd actually offered sex, or that Peter thought sex counted as a reward.

"Peter, this is ridiculous. You need to stop getting ideas from those slave training books."

"It's for your own good."

Neal could debate that all night. The ginger really did burn. He'd heard that the juices in ginger created a burning sensation when rubbed on sensitive body parts, and that some people enjoyed it. Neal didn't think he was one of them.

At first, it wasn't so bad. The warmth that spread through his ass was tolerable. But after a couple minutes, he was consumed by a fierce burn. He bit his lip and didn't voice his discomfort, but tears sprang to his eyes.

He hadn't gotten a proper look at the ginger when Peter brought it in. It'd been mostly concealed in Peter's hand. But his ass stretched around it. He felt full.

"How long?" Neal asked.

"A few more minutes."

Peter teased Neal's ass with the ginger. He twisted it and worked it in and out like it was one of the plugs. Each movement caused a new wave of fire.

At last, Peter removed the ginger. The burn remained, and Neal hoped it would subside quickly.

Peter gave him a light slap on the ass. "Come on. Up you go."

With another instruction to stay, Peter went to the kitchen to dispose of the ginger. When he came back, he said, "All right. Time for the corner."

But before Neal could head toward the corner, Peter picked up the gag. Neal had almost forgotten about that.

"Open."

Neal clenched his jaw.

"Would you rather get a few more with the belt, and _then_ go in the corner?"

"Can't I stand in the corner without the gag?"

"No. You haven't said one word today except to sulk or make excuses, so you can wear the gag for a while. Now open."

Neal really didn't want to get any more of the belt, so he reluctantly obeyed. Peter slipped the ball in his mouth and buckled the straps behind his head. He put a hand on Neal's back and guided him into the corner by the window. Neal was grateful that the curtains were closed, at least.

"Now stay," Peter said. "I'll be around the house, and I'll let you know when you can move."

He heard Peter walk away, and then up the stairs. There was nothing preventing Neal from moving, but he didn't trust Peter not to come back immediately just to test him.

But he trusted that he wasn't being viewed at the moment. He reached back and rubbed his sore ass. It was hard to differentiate the pain from the ginger from the pain from the belt, but he thought he could feel a welt under the curve of one of his cheeks.

He never thought he'd appreciate the paddle.

It'd been a long day, and Neal closed his eyes. He jumped when he felt something cold against his thigh. Looking down, he saw Satchmo. Satchmo pressed his nose to Neal's leg again and then looked up, panting.

Neal scratched him behind the ear.

He was still petting Satchmo a few minutes later when there was the sound of a key in the front door. Satchmo ran off to greet Elizabeth.

Neal didn't turn around at first. He heard Elizabeth come inside and say hi to Satchmo. Peter yelled down that he was upstairs.

Elizabeth didn't seem to notice Neal until she stepped into the living room.

"Oh! Hey, Neal. You get in trouble while I was out?"

Neal looked over his shoulder. She smiled sympathetically when she saw the gag, and continued her way into the kitchen.

He couldn’t hear Peter coming downstairs yet, so Neal stepped away from the corner. He undid the buckle on the gag and removed it. He flexed his jaw as he followed Elizabeth into the kitchen.

A knife and cutting board were still on the counter, along with a small pile of peeled ginger skin.

"So," Elizabeth asked when she saw him, "you going to tell me what happened?"

He was glad she didn't ask if he was allowed to be out of the corner.

"There was a misunderstanding at work. I wanted to get some fresh air, and I didn't ask for permission before I went out."

"Ah. I can see why Peter wouldn't like that."

"He spanked me with his belt. I think I have welts now...."

"Why did he use the belt?"

Elizabeth grabbed a couple glasses and started to fill them with tap water.

"He was going to use the paddle, but he broke it."

Elizabeth frowned. She handed Neal one of the glasses of water, which he took gratefully. He could use it after being gagged.

"The paddle _broke_?"

"I think he was using it a little hard, if you want my opinion."

Elizabeth was starting to look concerned. As Peter came into the kitchen, she said, "Honey, Neal says you broke the paddle trying to spank him?"

Peter stopped still and blinked. He was carrying the broken paddle, and he set it on the counter. "I wouldn't exactly put it that way. I just gave him one swat with it and the thing snapped in half."

"So you used your belt? Isn't that a little harsh?"

"I only gave him a third of what he would've gotten with the paddle. And he deserved more—did he tell you what he did today?"

"You mean the part where he took a little stroll? Yeah, he mentioned that."

"He went almost six blocks before I caught up."

Elizabeth eyed Neal. The concern started to leave her expression. "From the way Neal told it, I thought maybe he'd just stepped out the front door."

"When I got down there, I couldn't even see him. He's lucky I didn't call Slave Control to apprehend him."

Elizabeth leaned over and gave Peter a peck on the lips.

"Mm. Well, you were the only one who could catch him before, so I don't see why you need to delegate now."

Peter hummed softly and smiled. He wrapped his arms around Elizabeth's waist.

Getting sympathy hadn't worked, but at least Elizabeth was calming Peter's nerves. That was something.

Peter looked over at Neal, narrowed his eyes, and said, "Why aren't you in the corner?"

"I thought since Elizabeth was home, it was okay to move. Do you want me to go back?"

"Have you learned your lesson?"

"Sure, I've learned something."

Peter sighed. "That'll have to be good enough. Go on, get dressed."

Neal hurried into the living room before Peter could change his mind, or remark on the fact that Neal had also removed his gag without permission.

He dressed quickly, wincing when he pulled his pants up over his sore ass. The paddle had never left marks, but he knew the belt had left a welt or two. He wasn't sure he wanted to sit down right away.

When he returned to the kitchen, Peter was showing Elizabeth the paddle.

"I can't believe it," he was saying, "we've only had Neal six months and the paddle's already worn out!"

"Honey, I think the paddle is just poor-quality. It's not even real leather—it feels all plastic-y, like a cheap belt. And what's underneath, cardboard? When you replace it, you should try to go to Laurent's. They sell a lot of high-quality things."

Peter huffed. "Yeah, and 'high-quality' means 'expensive.'"

"What?" Neal asked. "I'm not worth the cost?"

Peter had set the paddle down, and Neal picked it up. He was curious to inspect it more closely. Elizabeth was right—it was cheaply made. In addition to the break in the middle, some of the stitching was coming out.

"Oh," Peter said, "I'm sure you are. And in this case, that's not something to be proud of."

Holding up the paddle, Neal said, "You're not hanging onto this, right?"

"I can't see how it's of any use."

Neal opened one of the kitchen drawers and dug out a box cutter. Laying the paddle flat on the counter, he cut open the covering. It was glued to the insert, but Neal was able to pull it loose to reveal an oval made of stiff cardboard. It was broken across the middle.

He wondered how higher-quality paddles were made.

Peter didn't pay much attention to him for the rest of the evening. Neal assumed it was his way of showing that he was still unhappy.

He didn't speak to him at all until Neal announced that he was going upstairs to his room.

"Don't forget to set your alarm before you go to bed," Peter said. "You're coming to work with me again tomorrow."

Neal froze on his way to the stairs. He'd taken it for granted that he was staying home. For one thing, he rarely went to work with one of the Burkes two days in a row. They alternated, and some days he stayed home. More importantly, he hadn't expected Peter to want to take him back so soon. He expected to be on house arrest for a few days.

Turning around, Neal said, "I thought you were worried about me embarrassing you."

"That's exactly why I'm bringing you. I'm going to show everyone that I'm not too embarrassed to bring you to work. And you're going to show everyone that you can be good."

Apparently, Neal's embarrassment from being spanked in Peter's office was immaterial. Yet, Neal saw some wisdom in what Peter was saying. He, too, could show that he wasn't embarrassed or shaken. Even if he was.

"Then I guess I'll get up bright and early," Neal said.

"That's what I like to hear."


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter comes clean to Neal. But new information pushes Neal to take drastic measures to see Kate.

In the morning, Neal's alarm woke him from a dream about Peter spanking him at the office. Over the knee. With his ass bare.

In reality, Peter's demeanor had softened. During the drive to work, he even tried to give Neal a pep talk.

"Listen," he said while they waited in traffic, "I know you were embarrassed yesterday. When I disciplined you. But you realize it's not a big deal to anyone else, right? It's normal for masters to discipline their slaves in public. I know you're mostly treated like a free person at the office, but no one's gonna be surprised if I treat you like a slave."

Neal looked out the window. It'd started to rain a minute ago, and some pedestrians were already pulling out umbrellas.

"Yeah," he said, unconvinced. He propped his elbow up by the window and pressed his knuckles against his lips.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Peter frown. Peter turned his eyes back to the road in front of him, even though they were still stuck in a gridlock.

"Anyway," Peter said, "If you're good, you won't have to worry about it happening again."

Neal eyed Peter, trying to interpret his tone and expression.

"Did Elizabeth get on your case about it?"

Peter glared at him. "For your information, she thinks I handled things as well as I could have, under the circumstances."

He bet Elizabeth _did_ give Peter a hard time for it. The thought gave him some small satisfaction.

As it turned out, though, Peter seemed to be right about it not being a big deal. No one treated Neal any differently at work. It was like yesterday's incident hadn't happened. Perhaps Peter was right, and slave discipline was just an everyday occurrence.

By mid-afternoon, Neal was glad to be at the office. He felt more at ease around the other agents again, and he had another chance to look at Kate's file.

Neal looked for it the first chance he got, but it wasn't on Peter's desk anymore. As soon as Peter was out of his office, Neal even checked the file cabinets in the corner, which were unlocked. But there was nothing labeled "Moreau."

The existence of the file weighed on him all day. Now that the immediate threat of the FBI's disapproval was removed from his shoulders, the threat to Kate was all he could think about.

He was so preoccupied that, when they left the office, he didn't even realize at first that they weren't going straight home.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"We need a new paddle, remember?"

"We're getting it _now_?"

"Why not?"

Neal had expected Peter to buy it alone, and he didn't really want to help pick out his own paddle.

He recognized where they were going, now. Peter had apparently decided to take Elizabeth's advice and visit Laurent's Slave Boutique.

"Do we really need a paddle? I think your hand is hard enough. And a better-quality paddle might hurt more. Did you think of that?"

"Careful, Neal," Peter said with a small smile. "I might get the idea you're protesting too much."

"What? Because I secretly want you to get a paddle? Reaching a bit, aren't you?"

"The belt seemed to leave a strong impression last night. It'd be smart to convince me that the paddle is more effective."

Neal squirmed and didn't say another word. The last thing he wanted was for Peter to decide to use the belt from now on. His ass was _still_ a bit tender.

Peter patted his knee. "Don't worry. I think we can save the belt for serious offenses."

When they arrived at the store, Neal followed Peter to the back, where they kept the punishment tools. There was a large selection of paddles, straps, crops, floggers, and even a few canes hanging from hooks on the wall.

While Peter went straight for the paddles, Neal looked at a nearby shelf that held various smaller items, including a box ominously labeled "Fire Lube." Under the name, it said, "Made with real ginger. 100% natural and safe."

Neal suppressed a shudder. He hoped Peter didn't take an interest in that.

A young, smiling salesman approached Peter and said, "Hi! Can I help you find anything?"

"Oh, I'm just looking at the paddles. My last one broke, so I need something a little sturdier."

The salesman nodded, a look of understanding and commiseration on his face. He gave Neal a harder look, one that said he thought he could recognize a difficult slave when he saw one.

Neal pasted a charming smile on his face. He was torn between trying to win him over and proving his suspicions correct.

He decided to go with the latter.

"My master realized it wasn't a good idea to buy a discount paddle," he said.

Peter gave him a dirty look. The salesman just ignored him. 

To Peter, the salesman said, "Well, we have leather, wood, and plastic. We also have a larger selection in our online store if you can't find something you like here."

"These are fine. I think I want to go with a leather one."

"What size were you looking for?"

"Well, I usually spank him over my knee, so I think smaller is better."

The salesman nodded. "Right. We have a couple smaller ones here. One has holes, the other doesn't. Some people think the holes create more of a sting, but it's a matter of opinion. You can't go wrong with either of them."

"I think I'll get the one with the holes. I like the shape."

"Great! If you're interested in anything else, we got some new items in recently." He took a familiar-looking switch off the wall. "This is the exact model used in government training facilities. Very sturdy and efficient."

Neal's ass tensed reflexively. He remembered all too well how efficient those things were.

Luckily, Peter looked uninterested.

"I'm not interested in long-range implements," he said. "I prefer spanking him over my knee. I'm not sure I trust him to stay still otherwise."

The salesman's eyes lit up. "Have you ever considered a spanking bench? Most of them come with restraints, so you can use any implement you want without your slave causing trouble for you. Let me show you some of our models."

Peter started protest, but the salesman was already leading him over to slave furniture. He stopped beside a floor model of an imposing metal spanking bench. It consisted of a padded surface that sloped downward and four padded arm and knee rests. There were several thick leather straps for restraint, and there were cranks and handles that suggested the contraption could be adjusted.

"This is our most popular model," the salesman said. "As you can see, it elevates the slave's backside for easy access. And it's fully adjustable. Not only can you change the slant, but you can adjust the arm and leg rests."

"I don’t know—"

"It's actually on sale now, so it's a great time to buy."

"You're on commission, aren't you?" Neal said.

The salesman gave him a dirty look. Peter shot a surprised look over his shoulder, but his eyes betrayed amusement.

"Quiet, Neal," he said.

"If you want," the salesman said quickly, "you can have your slave lie on it, so you can see how he fits."

Peter eyed the contraption and then turned to Neal. "Yeah, how about you give it a try?"

Neal decided to play along. He swaggered over to the spanking bench and climbed on. It seemed to support his weight okay, so he lay down on the padded surface and placed his arms and legs on the rests.

He was immediately glad that Peter didn't seem too interested in it. The bench lifted his ass up, and the leg rests held his legs wide apart. If he wasn't wearing clothes, he would be terribly exposed. Peter would be able to do anything he wanted.

"See how convenient it is?" the salesman said. "This bench is so comfortable that you can even use it instead of making him stand in a corner. It's perfectly safe to leave him on it for a few hours, as long as the restraints aren't too tight."

Peter squeezed Neal's thigh. "What do you think?"

Neal knelt up. Did Peter seriously expect him to offer feedback on punishment tools?

Raising his eyebrows, he said, "I could get out of these restraints in five minutes."

Peter looked at the salesman. "I'm afraid he's right. Restraints don't work well with this one. Besides, my wife would kill me if I tried to put this thing in the living room. I think I'll just stick with the paddle for now."

The salesman accepted defeat and rang up the purchase. Neal was more than ready to get out of the store.

As they walked out to the car, he said, "You didn't have to make me try out the spanking bench."

Peter grinned. "Oh, but it was fun. And you didn't have to sass the clerk."

"You didn't seem too upset by it."

"They always have to upsell at those places. It drives me crazy."

Any annoyance Peter might have had toward Neal's attitude appeared to be gone now.

Neal's spirits weren't as good. He didn't feel like being toyed with. As they drove home, he again thought about Kate, and the file he'd seen.

They were going over the Brooklyn Bridge when Peter finally acknowledged Neal's sullenness.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing," Neal said.

"You've been doing this a lot the past couple days. You really expect me to believe nothing's wrong?"

Neal's first instinct was to keep evading the question. But then he stopped himself. Perhaps Peter's lighthearted mood today was making him bolder, or maybe he was just too tired and worried to keep up the charade anymore.

"I know you're investigating Kate," Neal said.

There was a pause. Then, Peter said, "I'm not investigating Kate. What gave you that idea?"

Neal's anger swelled. He'd thought Peter was starting to trust him more. Apparently not.

"I saw the file on your desk. I saw the pictures, the credit card records...."

Peter grimaced. "I didn't mean for you to see that."

Neal scoffed. "Yeah, I figured. What are you doing? Are you hoping she'll lead you to some stash of things I stole? Do you want to arrest her, too?"

"No. God, no. Neal, I'm not _investigating_ her. You've got to believe that. That file you saw, it's all off the record."

"Then what's it for?"

"You've been so focused on her, and with you sneaking out, trying to meet with her, I thought it'd be a good idea to keep an eye on her for a while. That's all. I wanted to make sure she wasn't getting you in any trouble."

Neal studied Peter's face, trying to gauge if he was telling the truth.

"I'm sorry," Peter said. "I didn't realize you'd seen the file. I can imagine what you must've thought."

"What was I supposed to think?"

It still pissed him off, thinking of Peter going behind his back, tracking his girlfriend. And all because Neal had screwed up and gotten caught sneaking out. Kate didn't deserve trouble for that. It hadn't even been her idea to meet.

Still, if Peter was telling the truth, it wasn't as bad as Neal thought. And he could see why Peter had jumped to conclusions. Neal couldn't exactly tell him who he'd snuck out to meet, or who had given him the passport. And he had very few known associates. Peter didn't know about Mozzie, so Kate was the obvious choice.

"Listen," Peter said, "I have the file at home. I'll let you look through it, okay? Would that help convince you that Kate's all right?"

"Yeah, it'd help."

When they got home, Peter brought the file downstairs. He told Neal he'd brought it home last night and kept it in the master bedroom.

Neal spent the next forty minutes looking through it with Peter at his side. Now that he was able to view it at his leisure, he realized that there was nothing incriminating in it. Nothing to indicate that Kate was a suspect of any kind.

There was some doubt when he considered that Peter might have removed things prior to showing him the file. That was a possibility. But he had to trust Peter's word.

 

* * *

 

Neal did his best to stop worrying about Kate. At least for the time being, he could trust that she wasn't in danger.

Besides, he had other things on his mind.

His allowance was proving to be a disappointment. The money he got was barely more than pocket change, and he had few opportunities to use it. Peter and Elizabeth kept promising to let him go shopping if he wanted, but he had to wait until they had time. And since they accompanied him regardless, it made no difference if he used his allowance or if they made the purchase for him. Either way, the money was legally theirs, not his.

These days, Neal didn't have much time to think about shopping. The Burkes kept him busy. And unlike the Burkes, Neal didn't have the luxury of being tired. When either Peter or Elizabeth was exhausted from work, Neal had to pick up the slack, both domestically and sexually. But when Neal was tired, there was never a guarantee that he'd be let off the clock.

The upside was that he didn't have to worry about insomnia anymore. Most nights, when he went to bed, he fell asleep quickly and slept soundly.

In the beginning of March, Neal began taking Satchmo to the park again. In the winter months, it'd been too cold to go often, or to stay for more than a few minutes.

It was a welcome break. When Neal was out walking Satchmo, there were no other demands on him.

One afternoon, he arrived at the park and found Mozzie already sitting on a bench. He beamed when he saw him. As they got closer, Satchmo sniffed at Mozzie and wagged his tail in recognition.

"Haven't seen you around in a while," Neal said. He unclipped Satchmo's leash and sat down beside Mozzie.

"I've been training my new homing pigeon."

"Estelle has a new brother or sister?"

"A brother, named Francis. Anything interesting going on in your domestic prison?"

Neal chose his words carefully. There were a lot of things he couldn't tell Mozzie. He had too much pride to talk about being punished. And he couldn't say that he was mastering the art of delaying Peter's orgasms during fellatio (Peter wanted it to last longer. No more of the rush jobs that Neal prided himself on).

"They're keeping me busy," Neal said. "They take me to work with them a lot, now, but I still have to take care of the house, too."

"The Suit's forcing you to work for the FBI?"

"He's not _forcing_ me. It wasn't my choice, but I agreed to it. It's interesting work. Sometimes."

"But you see what he's doing, right? He's exploiting you. Making you grovel in front of the feds and condemn other criminals to the same fate that's befallen you."

"It's not like that. They're nice."

"Yeah, like cats are nice to a mouse."

"Exaggerate, much?" Neal threw Satchmo's toy and watched him run off to fetch it. "I did find something the other day. Peter's been keeping an eye on Kate. He has a file."

"He's investigating her?"

"He swears he isn't. He let me look at the file, and it looks legit. He says he's just worried about me meeting with her."

"Because he's a control freak who jumps to conclusions."

"You can't blame him for the conclusions. He knows I've snuck out to meet someone, and he doesn't know about you. Of course he'll suspect Kate."

Mozzie looked uncomfortable, and Neal realized that there had been something tense in his expression from the start.

"Well, his suspicion of Kate may come to an end shortly."

Neal frowned. "Why? What do you mean?"

"I seriously debated telling you about this. It'll just upset you, and there's nothing you can do. So what good is it?"

"Moz," Neal said, raising his voice. "What is it? Is Kate okay?"

"Kate's fine," Mozzie said with a sigh. "She's going to France."

Neal blinked. "So?"

"Permanently, Neal. Or at least for the foreseeable future."

Neal sat back. The wooden slats of the bench were cold, even through the lightweight jacket he wore.

"That's okay," he said. "By the time I'm free, she'll be back. Or I can go there. It's not like we're allowed to see each other now."

"I'm not sure she's planning on a reunion with you. She let the lease expire on your apartment, and she gave me this." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small brass key. "It goes to a storage unit. She put your things there. That is, the stuff the government didn't steal and auction off."

Neal swallowed. "So? She probably just wants me to be able to access it in case she's still over there when I'm freed. That doesn't mean anything."

"She also said to tell you goodbye," Mozzie said, softly. "And she left the bottle."

Neal shook his head. He couldn't believe that Kate had meant it that way. Mozzie was mistaken. Kate was just going abroad for a while, and wanted to make arrangements for their things. She wasn't _leaving_.

That was what he wanted to believe. But as Mozzie's words sank in, he was less confident.

"Moz, I have to see her before she goes. You have to get her to meet with me."

"How?" Mozzie said, spreading his arms. "I can't force her to come, unless you want me to kidnap her."

"Of course I don't want you to kidnap her. Just tell her we need to talk."

"I can't. I don't even know where she's staying right now. She's been under the radar for months."

"But she's not under Peter's radar...."

"Neal, what are you saying?"

"I could talk to Peter. Get him to contact her for me."

"That's a terrible idea. He's not going to help you. And even if he would, you can't trust him. He's a suit. Remember that."

"What other choice do I have? If you're right, I can't just let Kate go. I might never find her again."

Neal looked down and realized that Satchmo was by his feet. He had his squeaky ball in his mouth and he looked up at Neal hopefully. Absently, Neal took the ball from Satchmo's mouth and tossed it for him.

"I know this isn't what you want to hear," Mozzie said, "but maybe you just have to let her go."

A cool breeze blew in, chilling Neal and whipping his hair back. The weather was on the line between winter and spring. It seemed like that was how Neal's life was these days—he would have control, and then a harsh wind would knock him back down.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry," Mozzie said. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news."

"It's not your fault. I'm glad you told me. When is she going?"

"Her flight leaves Monday. Five PM."

Neal pulled his jacket closed. Satchmo came running up again but this time, Neal didn't pick up the ball when Satchmo dropped it at his feet. Instead, he absently scratched behind Satchmo's ears while Mozzie tried to cheer him with more talk of his homing pigeons.

 

* * *

 

Neal knew Mozzie didn't understand, but Peter was his only hope. As a slave, he had to rely on his owners for almost everything. And Peter tried to be fair, at least. He had to understand what this meant to Neal.

Neal broached the subject in the car the next morning. He would have preferred to wait and butter Peter up first. But he didn't have time for that.

"I saw someone I know the other day," Neal said.

Peter gritted his teeth. "Neal, you know you're not supposed to meet with people."

"I wasn't 'meeting' with anyone. I ran into him. And he told me Kate is leaving the country on Monday. She's moving to France, and she might not come back. You need to find her, Peter. I have to talk to her."

Peter just shook his head. "Neal...." he said sadly.

He didn't look surprised.

Neal looked at Peter's eyes. "Wait, you already knew, didn't you?"

He wanted to kick himself for not anticipating this.

"You mean, that she was going to France?"

"You've been keeping tabs on her. You knew, and you didn't tell me."

Peter sighed. "She made her plane reservations a couple weeks ago. And she let the lease on the apartment you guys shared run out on the first. Yeah, I knew."

"And you weren't going to say anything?" He couldn't stop the feeling of betrayal from coming out in his voice. He'd really believed that Peter would tell him if something happened with Kate. Especially after he'd shown him the file.

He realized now that there must have been items missing from it when Peter showed it to him. If Peter knew about the plane reservation, he would have recorded it in the file.

Peter had lied to him.

"What would it have accomplished?" Peter asked. "It just would have upset you when there's nothing you can do about it."

"There's something _you_ can do. You can let me see her, just for a few minutes. If I could just talk to her—"

"No."

"Peter—"

"I said _no_ ," Peter said firmly. "I'm sorry, but it's not going to happen."

Neal felt like he was shaking. His head swam.

"I can't believe it," he said. "I can't believe you're so possessive that you won't let me talk to her one last time."

"Oh, this has nothing to do with me, and you know it," Peter snapped. He raised his voice and took his eyes off the road to look at Neal. "This is all on you. You need to learn to let go. I know you want to see her, but trust me, it wouldn't be what you're hoping for."

"How do you know?" Neal spat.

"Neal, I...." Peter turned his eyes back to the road. He swallowed, perhaps reacting to Neal's wounded tone. Sympathy shone in his eyes. Or perhaps it was pity. He shook his head. "This isn't open for discussion. You need to listen to me on this."

If it wasn't open for discussion, then Neal was on his own. He would find his own way to get to Kate. He'd given Peter a chance to help, and now Peter couldn't blame him for anything he might do.

They rode the rest of the way in stony silence.

 

* * *

 

Neal did what Peter said—he didn't bring up Kate again. A couple times over the course of the day, Peter gave Neal a vaguely distrustful look, as though he was suspicious of Neal's willingness to let the topic go.

But Neal didn't give him anything to worry about. He did his work, and waited.

His chance came toward the end of the day, when Peter left Neal alone in his office while he went to the restroom. Neal took a quick peek to make sure he wasn't being watched, and set to work.

He fished a large paperclip out of a holder on the desk. Peter kept a few small tools in one of his desk drawers. He'd probably been a Boy Scout once. Neal remembered seeing a small pair of pliers. He found them, and a couple minutes later, he'd bent the paperclip into a makeshift lock pick.

He looked at his watch. He didn't think he had more than another couple minutes before Peter returned. He set to work on the locked bottom desk drawer. Luckily, even in the FBI, desk drawers weren't hard to pick. He had it open in seconds. Now he had the lockbox to deal with.

That lock was a little more complex, but only slightly. But even the simplest locks got his chest pounding when he only had a few minutes.

He breathed a sigh of relief when the box popped open. There were several collar keys inside. Each resembled a miniature flash drive, but with small metal prongs that could fit inside the lock mechanisms. Neal knew that his collar had a Wilson-Barre lock, and he recognized the correct key from when Peter had taken his collar off.

When he found it, he smiled and allowed himself a second of relief before stowing the key in his pocket.

He'd just closed the box and set it back in the drawer when he heard a noise by the door. He looked up, expecting to see Peter. But it was Diana, carrying a file folder.

"Hey," she said, "Peter around? I have a report for him."

Neal's heart was pounding. He realized that she couldn't see the open drawer from where he was standing. If he played it cool, she might not notice anything amiss.

"He just stepped out. Should be back in a minute. You can leave the report on the desk, if you want. I'll let him know it's here."

Diana hesitated. She was probably debating waiting there until Peter returned. Neal sat back in Peter's chair, trying not to draw attention to the open drawer. He wondered if he could inch it closed with his foot without making noise.

Smirking, Diana said, "You're worse than a cat, you know. You always take Peter's chair as soon as he gets up."

"What can I say?" Neal said with a shrug. "It's comfortable. I should get my own chair, don't you think?"

"Yeah, sure." She dropped the file on the desk. "Tell him I dropped this off, okay?"

Neal sank into the chair with relief as she turned around. Just as she was leaving, Peter appeared on the steps.

Before Neal could panic again, Diana stopped him outside the office door. She seemed to be telling him about the report, but Neal wasn't listening. He closed the drawer as fast as he could without drawing attention to himself.

Without the keys, he couldn't re-lock the drawer or the box. He just had to hope Peter wouldn't think to check the drawer before they left. 

When Peter finally came in, Neal was idly tossing a rubber band ball in the air. Peter grabbed it out of the air and set it down.

"You ready to go home?" Peter asked.

Neal got up. "You mean, and put away the mortgage fraud cases? Do you really need to ask?"

"Okay," Peter said with a smile. "Let me grab my things."

Neal watched him nervously. Peter filed away the report Diana had left, and then grabbed his phone off the desk. Then he bent over and reached for the desk drawers.

Neal couldn't tell if he was reaching for the bottom one or not, but he had to stop him just in case.

"You know," he said, "I've been thinking, and you're right. About Kate. I shouldn't have asked you to take me to her."

Peter stopped and turned to look at Neal. He regarded him for a moment, and then stood up and reached for his coat.

"I'm glad to hear that. And I really am sorry I can't help you." Peter pulled on his coat and slapped Neal on the shoulder. "C'mon. Let's go home."

Neal followed him to the elevator. While they waited, he reached into his pocket and wrapped his fingers around the key.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neal escapes. But his success is marred by doubts and some unexpected developments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because we're so close to the end, I plan to most the last few chapters pretty quickly. Perhaps even tomorrow. So keep an eye out!

He waited until just after midnight to put his plan into motion.

The house was quiet. Neal got out of bed and picked up one of the shoes sitting beside his nightstand. He'd hidden the collar key inside the toe.

He held it up in the dim light and looked at it. There was no going back after this. He wished he had more of a plan, but he wasn't sure it would make it any easier to run. Planning could turn into inaction, and the impulsiveness of what he was about to do invigorated him. Running was like a drug. It gave him a high that made him feel alive. But then there was always a crash in the form of sleepless nights and looking over his shoulder in train stations.

But that wouldn't happen this time. It would be different. He would find Kate. Then he would secure passage to a non-slave country, and Kate would join him.

His confidence bolstered, he reached behind his neck and pressed the key into the lock. The collar opened with a click, and Neal quickly took if off and re-locked it. The moment it had been unlocked would just be a blip recorded in a distant monitoring station.

Next, the arranged his pillows under the blanket to mimic his sleeping form. It was a crude trick, but he hoped it would buy him a little time. Regardless, he'd be long gone by the time the Burkes woke up. Tomorrow was Saturday, which was both good and bad. Good, because they would sleep in. Bad because they would both be home to discover his absence.

Neal stepped softly into the hall, careful to avoid any creaky floorboards. He opened the hall closet door. There was an old gym bag in there, and he took it. Back in his room, he filled it with essentials. He didn't take much—only enough clothes to last him until he was overseas.

He looked at the collar and key, which he'd laid on the nightstand. He couldn't leave them out—Peter would see them, making the ruse pointless. He thought for a moment, and then pulled back the blanket on the bed. He set the collar and key on top of one of the pillows. Before covering them up, he tore a blank sheet of paper out of one of his sketchbooks and wrote one word: "Sorry."

He wasn't sure what he was sorry for. But he left the note with the collar and its key.

He took a final look around his room and, satisfied that he'd taken everything he needed, went downstairs. He took the stairs slowly, and when he reached the second floor, he paused outside the Burkes' door, listening for signs that they were still awake. He heard nothing.

Still, he didn't want to risk it, and he was quick in the bathroom. He took his toothbrush and toothpaste, his razor, his shampoo, and a new bar of soap. With luck, he would be in a nice hotel in a few days and wouldn't need most of these things.

He still needed cash. Even if he could use his debit card without being tracked, he didn't even have enough money on it to get out of Brooklyn, unless he felt like walking.

Downstairs, he went straight to the bookshelf, where he knew Elizabeth kept some cash in a book on Renaissance painters. It was her money, and it was for emergencies. Neal felt a fleeting pang of guilt for taking it, but he brushed it off and pocketed two-hundred dollars.

He stood in the living room and took a final look at the place he'd called home for the past six months. He didn't think he'd miss it, but nevertheless it had become familiar and comfortable.

Satchmo was curled up on his dog bed, but had woken up. He was watching Neal curiously.

Neal bent over and scratched his head.

"Nice knowing you, Satchmo," he said softly. "I enjoyed our walks."

Satchmo closed his eyes and panted.

Neal stood up. It was time to go. He grabbed a spare house key before he left—that way, he could relock the deadbolt and the Burkes would be less suspicious when they came downstairs.

He slipped outside, locked the door, and was gone.

 

* * *

 

He managed to get a cab a few blocks from the house. He started to relax more as he settled into the back seat. On foot, he hadn't been able to quell the fear that Peter was right behind him.

But now it felt real. He was free.

He had the cab driver drop him off several blocks from Mozzie's safe house. He didn't think the FBI or Slave Control would be able to track him too easily, but it seemed safer to keep some distance. And the last thing he needed was for Mozzie to get paranoid.

He hoped Mozzie hadn't changed his routine in the past six months. Neal had never thought to ask. But even if Mozzie wasn't there, it would still be a safe haven until morning.

This safe house was an old pizza place with an apartment up above. It'd been years since the place was in business, and Mozzie didn't seem to have anything interest in the restaurant business. Why he bought it was a mystery.

Neal bypassed the restaurant and went up the fire escape on the side of the building, which led to a window.

Crouching on the cold metal landing, Neal rapped on the glass. "Moz! It's me! Open up."

Neal shivered. The weather was starting to get warmer, but late nights were still frigid. He could see his breath.

Finally, Mozzie's face appeared in the glass. He wrenched the window up.

"Neal, what are you doing here? I heard someone on the fire escape, and I thought the place was under attack."

Neal couldn't resist rolling his eyes. "Relax; your fortress is secure. Now, will you let me in? It's freezing out here."

Mozzie stepped back, giving Neal room to crawl in through the window. Once he was inside, Mozzie closed the window and locked it.

The apartment was cold, but it was better than outside. Neal rubbed his hands together. 

Mozzie looked like he'd just woken up. He wore a robe over a pair of silk pajamas.

"You could have told me you were going to escape," Mozzie said. "A little heads up, maybe."

"I didn't have a chance. I only decided the other day." He tugged down on his shirt collar and grinned. "See? I told you I could get the collar off."

"You're a regular Houdini. At least tell me you weren't followed."

"I wasn't. I was careful. They'll never track me here."

Neal looked around the dark room. It'd been a while since he'd been to this safe house. Mozzie had redecorated. There was a nice leather couch against the wall, now, and a Persian rug underneath a Queen Ann coffee table. It didn't look much like an apartment over a pizza place.

"Can I get you something?" Mozzie asked. "Tea? Whiskey?"

"Some tea would be great. I'm freezing."

He followed Mozzie to the small kitchen, and stood in the doorway while Mozzie put a kettle on.

While they waited, Mozzie asked, "So, what's your plan? You do have one, right?"

Neal shrugged.

"Wait, you _don't_ have a plan?"

"Of course I do. I'm just...still figuring it out the particulars." Seeing Mozzie's panicked look, he quickly elaborated. "I'm going to find Kate. Then I'll liquidate some assets and go abroad."

"Maybe a change of scenery would be nice. I could see myself settling down in Liechtenstein for a while."

"So you'll come with me?"

"Uh, hello? Did you think I wouldn't?"

"I don't expect you to uproot yourself for my sake."

"Please. We con men are citizens of the world. Home life is no more natural to us than a cage is to a cockatoo."

Neal smiled. "Quoting Shaw?"

"He was Irish...didn't Ireland abolish slavery six months ago?"

"Yeah, but most of the nearby countries still have slaves. I don't want to feel boxed in."

"Still an improvement over your recent circumstances." The kettle whistled, and Mozzie took it off the stove.

"We can work everything out tomorrow," Neal said.

"Yeah, but we'll want to move quickly. It really would've helped if you'd told me you were escaping ahead of time. I could have made our travel arrangements already."

"We're just going to have to improvise."

While Neal leaned against the wall with a steaming cup of green tea, Mozzie got out a spare pillow and blanket and set them on the sofa.

"I would offer you the bed," Mozzie said, "but you know I don't sleep as well when I don't have my hypoallergenic sheets."

"The couch is fine. Thanks."

The tea was steaming hot, but Neal tried to drink it anyway. The liquid was so hot that it didn't have any discernible flavor, and Neal felt like half his taste buds were burned away. But it warmed him up.

After Mozzie finished laying out the blanket on the couch, Neal took a seat. Mozzie retrieved his own cup of tea from the kitchen and sat across from him in an ornate armchair.

"Thanks for letting me crash here," Neal said. "I didn't have anywhere else to go. I know Kate let the lease run out on the apartment, so I guess she isn't there."

"She isn't. I've checked. And you know that's the first place the Suit will look for you."

He did. The temptation was strong to go to their old apartment and check, just in case. But he knew Kate wouldn't be there, and by morning, Peter would probably have a surveillance team scoping the place out, just waiting for him to show up.

"We'll need some money," Neal said. "Do you think you can help me sell something?"

He had some items stashed around the city. He couldn't take the time to collect everything before he left, but he could sell an item or two for some quick cash.

"I'll start looking for interested buyers in the morning. Maybe you could sell the Chagall."

"The Chagall? I like that one."

"You like most of the stuff you stole."

Mozzie was right. Anything Neal didn't have an attachment to, he'd sold long ago. The things he had stashed away were special to him. It was an empty sort of ownership—most of the time, he could only enjoy the idea of his stolen possessions. He couldn't put them in his home and view them whenever he wished.

But maybe that would change. If he got a nice house somewhere, and stayed under the radar, maybe he could have some of his things smuggled over.

"All right. I'll sell the Chagall."

Mozzie looked at his watch. "As thrilling as it is to have you here, we should both try to get some rest. We have a lot of work to do in the morning."

Neal looked at his own watch, and saw that it was after two. They finished their tea and said goodnight.

Once alone, Neal took off his shirt, belt, and shoes. He went to bed on the couch wearing his trousers and undershirt. He'd packed pajamas, but didn't feel comfortable changing into them. Even though he'd been careful, he still felt like he had to be prepared to run at a moment's notice.

He was tired, but he found he couldn't sleep easily. He was still keyed up from his escape. In the dim light, he looked around the room. The floorboards were scuffed and faded, and the paint on the walls was starting to chip. But the furnishing was warm and extravagant. Neal wondered how Mozzie got all this in here without anyone noticing.

He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He thought of the Burkes, who were probably still asleep in their bed, unaware that he was gone. Would they be surprised when they discovered his escape? Or had Peter always expected to find him gone someday?

Finally, he thought of Kate, and wondered where she was tonight. He wondered if she was thinking of him.

With that, he dozed off into an uneasy slumber.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Neal stayed in the safe house at Mozzie's insistence. They discussed their plan over breakfast.

"What about Cape Verde?" Mozzie asked.

"I don't know, Moz. Don't you think an island would be restrictive?"

"You say restrictive, I say safe. Less chance of slave catchers coming in from other countries to kidnap you."

It was also more difficult to flee if there was danger, but Neal didn't bring that up.

"Besides," Mozzie said, "compared to what your life has been like, this new life of ours is going to be the epitome of independence."

Maybe he was right. Even so, Neal couldn’t shake the idea that if he wasn't careful, he'd end up trading one prison for another.

After breakfast, Mozzie went out to put their escape plan into motion. Neal stayed behind.

He was itching to go out, but there was no point in taking unnecessary risks. It was eight o'clock, and for all he knew there was already an APB out on him. He turned on the small TV in the living room and waited to see if his name came up on the news.

Mozzie returned after a few hours, carrying a paper bag and a cardboard tube.

"I got the Chagall out of storage, and I grabbed some necessary supplies while I was at it. If we had more time, and could sell more things from your stash...."

"Yeah, but we don't. The Chagall will be fine."

Neal and Mozzie shared a storage unit, but most of Neal's stash was hidden. Neither Mozzie nor Kate knew the actual location, or exactly what he had. Mozzie would be offended if he knew, but Neal's enslavement had only made him more confident that it was best to have some secrets. He felt more secure knowing that some of his assets were hidden, even from his friends.

Mozzie set the paper bag on the small dining room table, and Neal opened it. There was another one of his fake passports inside, and a burner phone.

"Great," Neal said. "Do you have a buyer for the Chagall yet?"

"Finding a buyer last minute will be a challenge. I think I've found a fence who might be interested, but I've never worked with the guy before."

"Any word on Kate?"

"Nada. Neal, we might have to leave before you get a chance to find her. It's not the end of the world—you can contact her from Cape Verde, and she can come to us."

"I'm going to find her, Moz. If I have to, I'll go to the airport on Monday."

"Are you kidding? The Suit knows that's where you'll go. The place will be crawling with feds!"

"Then I'll have to try to find her before then." Something else occurred to him. "So, it's decided? About Cape Verde?"

"It's our best option."

"I just want to make the best choice."

"You don't have the luxury of second-guessing yourself right now. We have to _move_."

Mozzie was right, of course. Neal just hoped this was the _right_ move.

He'd expected to feel freer than he did. But the stakes were higher than the last time he ran. He wasn't facing a few years of slavery if he got caught. Almost all fugitive slaves were given life sentences upon apprehension. During training, the guards tried to scare them into submission by talking about how much worse the lifers' training was. Neal didn't put a lot of stock in it. It was just a scare tactic. But he couldn't imagine never being free again. And lifers had far fewer rights.

If it hadn't been for Kate, Neal wouldn't have taken the risk so easily. But if he let Kate go, knowing she might disappear forever, he could never live with himself.

He got up and grabbed his coat.

"What are you doing?" Moz asked.

"I'm going out. To look for Kate."

Before leaving, he grabbed the burner phone and the rest of the cash he'd taken from the Burkes.

The problem was he had no idea where Kate was. It would have helped if he'd gotten another look at Peter's file before escaping. He had no doubt that Peter knew exactly where Kate was right now.

There were a few places he could try. She knew an artist who spent a lot of time abroad. Kate sometimes watered the guy's plants for him, and had a key to his place. Her best friend lived in a loft in SoHo. Her mother lived in Queens. 

He hoped that this time, she would be staying somewhere obvious like that. It wasn't like before, when she'd been avoiding him.

But by the end of the afternoon, all Neal had accomplished was burning through most of his cash on cab rides. There was no sign of Kate.

Neal was discouraged when he returned to the safe house. He hadn't considered what would happen if he couldn't find her. There was always the airport, but Mozzie was right—it was risky.

Mozzie had given Neal a spare key that morning. Neal used it to let himself in through the back door of the restaurant, and headed upstairs. 

When he opened the apartment door, Mozzie called out, "Who's there? I've got a gun and I'm not afraid to use it!"

"Chill, Moz. It's just me. And I know you don't have a gun."

"This is your last warning!"

"Moz?"

Neal looked up, and, for the first time, noticed the wire attached to the door. It was stretched across the ceiling and led into the bedroom, which was partitioned off with a curtain. Neal slipped a hand between the curtains and peeked into the bedroom. There was a tape player sitting on the nightstand, and the wire seemed to be attached to some sort of mechanism that had hit the play button. There was no sign of Mozzie.

Mozzie hadn't mentioned an intruder alarm.

At least there didn't appear to be any booby traps. Neal went into the bedroom and over to the tape player.

"I mean it," Mozzie's voice cried out on the tape, "I'm armed and—"

Neal hit the stop button.

While he waited for Mozzie to return, Neal went to the kitchen to find something he could make for dinner. It was the least he could do to repay Mozzie's hospitality. He thought he deserved Mozzie's help, but even so, Mozzie had been a much more gracious and tolerant host than he could have been. And he had probably changed his treasured routine to accommodate Neal. Ordinarily, he probably would have been staying at one of his other safe houses tonight.

While Neal made spaghetti, he turned on the TV to listen to the news. There was still no mention of his escape, and that made him uneasy. He wasn't some small-time drug dealer or car thief who snuck away from his master. He was a major fugitive. The FBI had hunted him for years, and now he was on the run again. Why wasn't the news covering the story? Why wasn't the FBI enlisting the public's help?

It was unexpected, and Neal didn't like it. And maybe, in a small way, he felt slighted. Did no one see his escape as a big deal?

Mozzie returned while Neal was working on the spaghetti sauce, and soon they were sitting at Mozzie's small table, eating.

"Something's not right," Neal said. "My escape hasn't made the news yet."

Mozzie stabbed at his spaghetti and wound some noodles onto his fork. "Now isn't the time for vanity," he said. "No publicity is good publicity."

"No publicity means the FBI is pulling their punches. Before, they had my police sketch in the paper almost immediately."

"So take advantage of this. Now isn't the time to worry about vague possibilities. You can worry when we're in our island paradise. And by then, you won't _need_ to worry."

Mozzie had a point. But Neal told himself he was just being cautious. He'd learned the importance of that the hard way. If he'd been more cautious, he wouldn't have been arrested in the first place.

"Your heart _is_ in this, right?" Mozzie asked.

The question surprised Neal. "Of course. Why wouldn't it be? Don't worry, Moz—I'm not gonna blow this."

 

* * *

 

Neal spent another restless night on Mozzie's couch. He'd barely gotten to sleep when he woke again to the sound of Mozzie passing through the living room on his way to the kitchen. Neal cracked open his tired eyes and saw that the living room was bathed in the pale blue light of dawn.

Neal knew there was no hope of getting more sleep. He could rest when this was all over.

As the morning went on, they strategized more.

"It looks like our buyer for the Chagall is ready to move forward," Mozzie said. "I just got a text."

"Oh yeah? Who is this guy?"

"Name is Frank Valentine."

"I never heard of him."

"I've never met him in person. But he's interested in buying the Chagall later this morning. And I'm making arrangements with a private plane. If we get the money, we can be out of here by tomorrow morning."

"No, that might be too soon. I still have to find Kate."

"There may not be time for that."

"Moz, it's the only reason I ran."

"Then you need to focus on some new reasons," Mozzie snapped. "Has it occurred to you that maybe she doesn't _want_ a nice reunion?"

Neal narrowed his eyes. "So now you're saying she's leaving the country to get away from me. Is that what you think, Moz?"

"Hey, don't blame me for the way things are. Maybe the fact that she didn't meet with you in the park should have been a clue."

Neal walked over to the window and looked out over the fire escape. He thought about stepping out to get some air.

"The only reason she couldn't see me is because of Peter. And now he's stalking her, so of course she's leaving."

There was a long, painful silence between them. Neal stepped closer to the window and felt the cold emanating from the glass.

Finally, Mozzie said, "I never thought I would defend a suit, but in this case, you're wrong."

"What are you talking about?"

"Considering how unfocused you are right now, and how close we are to the sweet taste of freedom, I hesitate to even tell you."

Neal turned around and glared at Mozzie. "What is it?"

"The Suit met with Kate."

Neal frowned. "Why?"

"To ask her to meet with you."

"But that's impossible. We haven't seen each other. Peter never said anything." It didn't make any sense.

"She told him no."

Neal sank into a chair at the kitchen table. He ran a hand through his hair as the information sank in.

"How do you know about this?"

"She told me about it when she dropped off the key to the storage unit."

"And you didn't tell me?"

"What could you have done?"

Neal shook his head. He couldn't believe Mozzie would keep something like this from him. He couldn't believe Peter had lied. Why? If he'd told Neal the truth in the car on Friday...if he was honest, he still wouldn't have accepted it.

"This doesn't change anything," Mozzie said. 

Neal jumped to his feet. "It changes everything, Moz!" He started to pace. "I ran away for _her_."

"So? Either way, you're free now. Forget Kate. Start fresh."

Neal stopped pacing and turned to face Mozzie. "Do you have any idea what I'm risking, here? If I get caught, they'll give me life. I can't do that. Not to mention, I'd end up with a new owner."

"A new master is the least of your concerns. I know I just defended the Suit, but he isn't _that_ nice."

Neal sat down again, this time on the nearby sofa. Mozzie joined him, taking a seat in a wingchair.

"I don’t' know," Neal said, "I used to want Peter to sell me. But I've been thinking a lot lately, and it hasn't been as bad as it could be. I can't stop thinking about Adler, about how much his slaves hated him...."

"Being a bad slave owner was just one of Adler's flaws."

"But that's just it, Moz. It's just not that he didn't care about them. I think some of what he did was normal." He swallowed. "I don't want to belong to someone who lets his friends and colleagues have sex with me."

"It doesn't matter—in twenty-four hours, we'll be out of U.S. jurisdiction. There won't be any new owners. And it's not like we have other options. You can't undo an escape."

"Yeah," Neal said, his voice demure. "I guess you're right."

"Of course I am. But first, we need money. You think you can handle the Chagall transaction? I need to make some arrangements for our trip."

"Fine. Set it up."

 

* * *

 

Neal hadn't ventured outside since he left to look for Kate. The fresh air and bustle of the city were welcome, but he kept an eye out for anyone who might be following him. He didn't worry much, though. He assumed that if the FBI was on his trail, they wouldn't hesitate to arrest him. After all, he was an escaped slave. There was no need to catch him in the act of committing a crime.

The exchange was planned for ten o'clock at Valentine's loft. Neal wondered if that was why Mozzie suggested that he do the sale; Mozzie always preferred public meeting places. They didn't have time to arrange a meet to Mozzie's usual specifications.

Valentine lived in an old industrial building that had been converted into apartments. Having not dealt with him directly, Neal wasn't sure what to expect. The man who answered the door was about Neal's age and had jet black hair. He looked familiar, and Neal tried to place him.

His eyes lingered on Neal as he let him in.

"When I talked to your friend," Valentine said, "I got the impression you're in a rush. I have the cash in the other room. You got the painting?"

Neal held up the cardboard tube he'd brought. "Right here."

Valentine led Neal to the dining room table, which was large enough to lay out the painting. While Neal carefully removed it from the tube, Valentine excused himself.

There was another canvas rolled up at the far end of the table. Neal gently unrolled a few inches to take a peek. What he saw was both exquisite and shockingly familiar.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

Neal looked over his shoulder. Valentine had returned, carrying a magnifying glass and an eye loupe. 

"Dali, right? If I'm not mistaken, this was taken from the Met in December."

Valentine smiled and shrugged. Now Neal knew why he was familiar. He'd been in the surveillance camera photos Sara brought in.

"It was an impressive job," Neal said.

"Yeah, well, I'd hoped to sell it quickly, but I haven't been able to get it out of the country. The feds are watching too closely."

Neal clicked his tongue sympathetically. "They always are."

"That's why your Chagall is so appealing. This piece isn't on the radar right now." He started to bend over the Chagall, but paused and looked up at Neal. "You're Neal Caffrey, aren't you?"

Neal smiled. "You're familiar with my alleged work?"

"Yeah. I heard about the Falconer manuscripts. But last I heard, you were serving time. Don't see a collar around your neck."

"Wouldn't be here if I had a collar weighing me down. My life has taken a positive turn recently."

Valentine nodded thoughtfully and turned his attention back to the Chagall. He examined it for a few minutes before setting his tools down and standing straight.

"Looks like the real thing," he said. "I'll get you your cash."

"I knew you'd be satisfied."

"Yeah. Hey, before you go, why don't we have a drink? I got a new bottle of Pinot noir, and I always like to toast to a successful deal. What do you say?"

Neal hesitated. He was anxious to get the money back to Mozzie. But Valentine had already gone into the kitchen without waiting for a response. He got two wineglasses out of a cupboard.

"Sure," Neal said. "Why not?"

A couple minutes later, Valentine returned with two glasses of wine. He handed one to Neal.

Neal walked over to one of the large domed windows and looked out. He took a sip of his wine and enjoyed the slight warmth in his throat as it went down. Wine had been a rarity for him when he was with the Burkes. Outside, the skies had turned gray and it looked like it might rain.

"I'll get the money," Valentine said. He set his glass on the table and went back into the other room.

Neal drank some more of his wine and continued to enjoy the view. After a few minutes, he began to wonder where Valentine was. He looked at his watch—the one Peter had given him—and figured it had been at least five minutes.

Hadn't he said the money was ready?

After a few more minutes, Neal decided to investigate. But when he turned around, a wave of dizziness hit him. He set his glass down on the table next to Valentine's, and placed his palm on the wooden tabletop to steady himself. He tried to let go, but the room was spinning and he thought he might be sick.

Valentine returned. His hands were empty.

"You all right?" he asked.

Neal nodded. "Yeah, fine. Listen, I'm not feeling great, so if I could get that money...."

Neal tried to take some steps, but Valentine rushed to his side and put an arm around his back.

"Whoa, careful. You look like you're about to fall over. Here, sit down for a minute."

Neal tried to pull away, but Valentine steered him over to the sofa. Neal collapsed onto it as soon as Valentine let go of him.

He looked back at the table, at the wineglass he'd drunk from.

"What—what did you—?"

"Shh. Just relax."

Neal's eyes grew heavy, and his limbs felt like lead. His upper body fell down on the sofa, and he closed his eyes.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After getting out of a dangerous situation, Neal is faced with making a decision about his future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, I'm posting the final three chapters tonight. I've fiddled with the ending enough, I think, and I didn't want to make you guys wait too long for the resolution to the cliffhanger.

When he woke up, he couldn't remember where he was. He was lying on his side on a hard wooden floor, and when he tried to move his arms he found that they were tied behind his back. He tested his legs and discovered that his ankles were also bound.

His head was pounding. He lifted it up off the floor and looked around. It was only then that he recognized Valentine's loft. He was lying on the floor not far from the sofa. He remembered arriving, and discovering the Dali. What happened after was a blur.

He heard Valentine's muted voice in the next room.

"I'm telling you, he's a runaway. No one's going to suspect he was stolen." There was a pause. "No, I already thought of that. I don't see any signs of a manhunt yet. I think if you take him out of the state first, you won't have much trouble getting him out of the country."

Neal forced himself up into a seated position. He scooted up against the sofa to support his back. A minute later, he heard Valentine say goodbye to whoever he was talking to on the phone. Soon after, he came out of what appeared to be the bedroom.

"Oh," he said when he saw Neal, "you're awake. Good. You feeling okay? Nauseous?"

Neal glared at him.

"I didn't want to gag you, just in case you were going to throw up. Besides, doesn't matter if you make noise. We're on the top floor, and the place below us is empty. No one's going to hear you. Let me get you some water."

"Why are you doing this?"

"It's nothing personal," he said as he walked into the kitchen. He got a glass out of the cupboard and filled it with water from the faucet. "Really. Your reputation is great." 

He put a straw in the glass and brought it over to Neal. Valentine crouched down and held the straw to Neal's lips. When Neal didn't open his mouth, he said, "Relax. It's not drugged. I just don't want you to get dehydrated."

Neal _was_ thirsty. Slowly, he opened his mouth and let Valentine slip the straw between his lips. The water was cool and refreshing.

"Look," Valentine said, "I could use a good sale. I had a buyer lined up for the Dali, but he's waffling now because the feds are too aggressive. But I have this old client who lives in Thailand. American guy. He can't buy a slave legally since he isn't a citizen. You know how it is—guys like that make big scores and create new lives for themselves overseas. They want American slaves that speak English and remind them of where they came from. There's a huge market. Here you're worth what, ten, fifteen thousand tops? My client will pay eighty for you."

Valentine took the glass of water away from Neal's mouth. He stood up and put the water on the table. Neal followed his movements and could just make some other items on the table. _His_ belongings. His burner phone. His wallet.

"You don't have to do this," Neal said. "If you just want money, I can help you with that."

"Sorry, Neal, but I need a sure thing right now. I just talked to one of my client's friends here in the States. He'll be here in a couple hours to get you, and I'll get paid. Better than waiting for an escaped slave to make good on a promise."

"Is that all I am to you? An escaped slave you can make money off of? You could be in this position just as easily as I am."

Valentine shrugged. "Yeah, but I'm not. Look, I told you, it's nothing personal. You were a great forger, a great art thief. But right now, you're what my client wants. I've been waiting months to get my hands on a slave." He got himself a beer out of the refrigerator and uncapped it. "Besides, it's not like you were happy with what you had here, huh? Or you wouldn't have lost your collar." He took a long swig of the beer and set the bottle on the counter. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get ready for the appointment. Don't go anywhere."

He went back into the bedroom, leaving Neal alone. He must have been confident that Neal was secure, just like he was confident that Neal was just a piece of property, no different than the Chagall.

Obviously, as far as Valentine was concerned, taking a slave wasn't the same as kidnapping. Neal realized he'd been naïve, believing that escaping would give him back his old identity. But an escaped slave was still a slave.

He had to get out of there. Eventually, Mozzie would realize something was wrong. But Neal could be long gone by the time Mozzie figure out what happened. His best chance of escape was to get away before Valentine's contact arrived.

He had to cut the ropes securing his hands. He looked around for anything within reach that he could use.

There was a small metal statue of a tree sitting on the nearby coffee table. Some of the edges looked sharp enough to fray the rope, with enough time. The question was whether or not he had time before Valentine returned.

Neal scooted over and turned onto his knees. He got his balance, sat up, and reached behind him for the statue.

It was difficult work without seeing what he was doing. He managed to get one of the thin metal branches in between the ropes and started to saw back and forth. While he worked, he listened for the sound of Valentine returning.

Thankfully, Valentine had used thin nylon ropes that snagged easily on the rough surface of the statue. After what seemed like an eternity, the rope frayed enough that Neal could loosen the bindings and free his hands.

Without even taking a moment to rub his sore wrists, he sat down and tugged the ropes off his ankles. He was still unsteady when he got up. The aftermath of the drug he'd been given, most likely. Before leaving, he rushed over to the table to collect his belongings. Everything seemed to be there. As an afterthought, he risked a few seconds to collect the Chagall and put it back in its cardboard tube.

He then ran silently to the door, undid the chain, and slipped out.

He didn't stop to catch his breath until he found a cab. If Valentine had discovered him missing, it didn't matter anymore.

Neal looked at his watch. It was almost three. His ordeal had taken up most of the afternoon. 

When he got back to the safe house, Mozzie wasn't there. Neal sat down on the sofa and rested his head in his hands. Now that he was safe, the reality of what almost happened sunk in. He'd heard of slaves being stolen and sold on the black market, but he'd never considered it a risk.

He knew he should try to forget about it, but he indulged himself in wondering what it would have been like. Would his new master have been cruel? Generous? Would it have been easier or harder to escape in a foreign country where he had no identity?

He was jarred out of this reverie by his phone vibrating on the coffee table. He picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Finally. I've tried to call you three times now. What happened with the sale?"

Neal rubbed his eyes. "The sale was a bust, Moz. The guy you sent me to figured out I was an escaped slave and tried to sell me to some rich fugitive in Thailand."

"What?! I can't believe it. You can't trust anyone these days. There's no respect for our enslaved brethren anymore. Did he take our Chagall, too?"

"No, I got that back."

"Well, at least there's that. We'll find another buyer."

"No. I'm done with buyers today." He paused, debating whether to admit to the next part. "I'm going to call Peter."

"Are you crazy? Do you know what you're saying?"

"I'm starting to think this whole thing has been a mistake. I need to know where I stand right now. And I need to know what happened with Kate."

"Neal, you're not thinking clearly. Listen, wait for me. I'm on my way back and we can talk about this."

"Don't worry; I won't let him arrest me. But if I'm not back by tonight, you can keep the Chagall. Consider it a thank you, for everything."

He hung up before Mozzie could respond, and turned his phone to silent to quell the inevitable ringing.

He hoped Mozzie knew how grateful he was. Mozzie was more loyal than most people would have been, and Neal appreciated that. Harboring a runaway slave was serious.

But running away was also serious. Neal was starting to think it was a play he'd made too soon.

Before leaving the safe house, he gathered his things, including his duffle bag full of clothes. He knew there was a possibility he wouldn't be coming back here, but he wasn't sure if he'd be going further underground, or accompanying Peter.

He walked several blocks before taking out his phone. If Peter managed to trace the call, Neal didn't want to lead the FBI to Mozzie's safe house. With trembling fingers, he called Peter's cell.

"This is Burke."

"Hello, Peter."

There was a pause on the other end. "Neal. Where are you?"

"C'mon, Peter, you know me better than that. You really think I'm going to tell you where I am? How many agents do you have looking for me?"

"Counting me? Just one."

Neal froze. He ducked out of the foot traffic and took refuge against the window of a shoe repair store.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I haven't reported your escape yet. El and I are the only ones who know."

Neal's chest was pounding. He didn't want to be naïve, but he didn't think Peter would deceive him about this. And it made sense. If Peter hadn't reported the escape, that would explain why there hadn't been anything on the news.

"You're still in the city, aren't you?" Peter said. "Meet with me."

"I'm not going to let you arrest me...."

"No tricks. We'll just talk. That's what you want, right? You wouldn't be calling if you didn't."

"I know you saw Kate. I want to know what happened."

"If you want to talk, it'll have to be in person."

Neal hesitated, but deep down he knew he wouldn't have made this call if he wasn't willing to see Peter. "There's a restaurant called Bernard's a few blocks from where Elizabeth works. I'll meet you there."

"Okay. I'm about a half hour away from there."

"I'll be there soon."

Neal had used Bernard's as a meeting place before. It was public, it had outdoor seating, and it was near a subway entrance. If Peter went back on his word, Neal was confident he could make a quick getaway.

 

* * *

 

It took him forty-five minutes to get there, and when he arrived, Peter was already sitting at a table on the patio.

Neal hung back for a few minutes. He found a spot across the street where he could observe without revealing himself.

He looked for signs of a sting—people loitering suspiciously outside buildings, municipal vans parked near the restaurant, any indication of Peter talking into his watch....

But there was nothing. Just Peter drinking a glass of water and waiting.

Neal emerged and crossed the street at the intersection. As he walked up to the table, Peter noticed him and sat up straighter.

"I was starting to wonder," Peter said.

"I agreed to meet."

Neal sat down across from Peter. He set his duffle bag on the ground but kept it ready to grab at a moment's notice.

"When the server comes around, go ahead and order something to eat. It's my treat."

Neal wasn't very hungry, but he made a show of looking at the menu.

"I know you asked Kate to meet with me," he said. He didn't lift his head, but he raised his eyes to gauge Peter's reaction.

"Did she tell you that?"

"No. Someone else did. I haven't been able to find Kate."

Peter sighed. It was difficult to interpret his expression. He looked stressed, and there were bags under his eyes, but he didn't look as angry as Neal had expected. He had a day's worth of stubble on his face.

"El and I thought it might help you move on if you could talk to Kate. So I met with her and asked if she'd be willing to do that."

"And?"

"And she said no. I don't think she meant to hurt you. I think Kate doesn't know what the future is going to bring, and she didn't want to make any promises she couldn't keep. She thought it was best. I disagreed, but I couldn't force her."

"Why didn't you tell me this?"

"Because I didn't want to upset you. Because I was worried you'd do something stupid, like this. But I should have told you the truth. I realize that now."

"Yeah, you should have." Neal paused and added, "But to be fair, I might have run anyway."

Peter lifted his chin. "What made you call me?"

Neal shrugged. "I had to know the truth about Kate. And running away was a big move. I'm starting to think I may have played my cards too soon."

"You want to come back?"

"I do. I wasn't unhappy with you and Elizabeth." He saw Peter's skepticism, and continued. "Of course I want to be free. But I don't want to spend the rest of my life running. And I know now that until I finish my sentence, people will always see me as a slave."

"You're right," Peter said. "I know it seems arbitrary and unfair. But that's how it is."

A waitress came over to the table, then, and Neal ordered a sandwich just to be polite. After she had gotten Neal a glass of water and left to put in their order, the conversation resumed.

"Your turn," Neal said. "Why haven't you reported my escape?"

"You don't deserve a life sentence over a stupid mistake. I wanted to find you on my own. Besides, I can't help but feel this is partly my fault."

Neal raised his eyebrows. He couldn't help a small smile from forming on his face. "Are you actually admitting that you're not perfect?"

"It's just...I wanted to do this whole 'master' thing right. And all those books say that if you're firm and consistent, most slaves adjust within six months. But you're not most slaves."

He sounded so...disappointed. Neal wondered if it was more because he hadn't succeeded, or because he'd tried to tame him in the first place.

"Peter," Neal said softly, "I don't think any slave fits the model in your books. Well, not many, at least."

Peter chuckled dryly. "Yeah, maybe you're right. And you know, I never wanted to break you. I hope you realize that. You wouldn't be Neal Caffrey if you weren't a pain in my ass."

They were silent for a minute when their food arrived. When Neal picked up his chicken sandwich, Peter looked at his wrists.

"Your wrists are bruised," he said. "What happened?"

Neal looked. His wrists were marked from the ropes. "Long story," he said.

"Neal...."

"I'm fine. Honest. I'll tell you all about it later." Neal bit into his chicken sandwich, but it tasted bland and he had a hard time swallowing. He didn't think it was the food's fault.

Peter looked like he wanted to press the issue, but he didn't. As he watched Neal eat, Peter said, "El and I have been wracking our brains all weekend trying to figure out why you ran."

"You know why I ran. Kate's leaving. I had to try to find her."

Peter shook his head. "No, there has to be more to it than that. I know you said you aren't unhappy, but you must've been. Have I hurt you?"

Realizing what Peter meant, Neal quickly said, "No. It isn't that. The sex isn't bad."

"Neal," Peter said, his voice heavy with disappointment, "don't lie to me."

Neal couldn't help himself. "I thought you wanted enthusiasm."

Peter was silent for a moment. "Right. Fair enough."

"Look, if you want honesty, then how's this? No, I wouldn't have chosen to be your slave. But it's not that bad. It's not why I ran. I'm willing to let you do what you want with me if I get something in return for it."

Peter frowned. "We've been over this. You can't expect a reward for doing what you're supposed to."

"And you can't expect a slave to serve without incentive. It only works that way in those books of yours. Which we've established are not accurate resources."

Peter held up a hand. "Okay. We can talk about this when we get home."

"Oh, I haven't agreed to go back with you yet."

Neal took a bite of his sandwich and forced it down. Peter's BLT remained untouched on his plate.

Peter raised his eyebrows. "I thought you wanted to finish your sentence with me and El."

"I do," Neal said. "But I'm not going back unless I know I won't regret it. Just because you haven't hurt me doesn't mean I'm fine with how things are."

Peter clenched his jaw. "You're not exactly in a position to make demands."

"I think I am." He picked up a potato chip off his plate and tossed it in his mouth. "You need me back just as much as I need to return. I don't think you want to have to report me missing."

It was an exaggeration, perhaps, but not much of one. He knew it was a kindness that Peter and Elizabeth had chosen not to report his escape. But at this point, he knew they were thinking of themselves, as well. What would it look like if they reported the escape a few days late? The data would show that Neal's collar was taken off late Friday night. The delay would make them look bad, maybe even cast suspicion on them. Neal wasn't above using that leverage.

"Also," Neal said, "I know where the Dali is."

Peter's eyes widened. "The one taken from the Met? You know who has it?"

"I do. And I'll tell you once I'm assured that I'm not going to be arrested, and that you'll agree to my terms."

Peter nodded slowly, indicating that he understood what Neal was getting at. "All right. So what are you proposing?"

"First of all, I need more free time. I like going to work with you and Elizabeth, but doing that _and_ all my chores is too much. I need more time off."

"That sounds doable. How much time were you thinking?"

"At least two full days off a week."

Peter's eyes narrowed skeptically. "And what would you have off from, exactly?"

"Everything. No work, no sex, no cleaning or cooking."

"Okay," Peter said, raising his hand, "a couple days to relax sounds fair. I guess we weren't expecting to take you to work so much, so we didn't think it through. But what you're suggesting isn't very reasonable. El and I have days off, but we still have to take care of things around the house. We can't just sit around and do whatever we like. Even with you around, we still take Satchmo out and cook dinner sometimes. And if you were hired help, you'd just go home to your own house and still have to cook and clean for yourself. So how about this: you get a couple days off from your regular duties, and El and I take care of most of the housework and cooking. But you still have to be a productive member of the household. No ignoring the doorbell or letting Satchmo go unfed just because it's your day off. Got it?"

Neal thought about that for a moment. He supposed that was fair enough. 

"Okay. Deal. Next, when I help you and Elizabeth at work, I think I should be paid for it."

Peter's mouth fell open. "What? You're a slave!"

"I'm _your_ slave. I wasn't purchased for the FBI, or for Burke Premiere Events. I enjoy the work, but it's not really fair that you guys get to profit off me and I don't get anything. I'm not asking for living wage—just some extra spending money."

"All right, fine," Peter said, waving a hand, "we'll work something out. I'm sure we can give you a few dollars a day."

That would have to do. It was really the principle.

"Finally, I meant what I said about you using me for sex. I'll let you do anything you want, but you have to make it worth my while. For starters, I want to see more art exhibits. I want to go out to eat at restaurants I like. I could use more shirts that aren't hand-me-downs. And I think I should have more say in when and how we do it."

Peter shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He tried and failed to speak a couple times before saying, "Neal...look, you know I wouldn't do anything to hurt you, right?"

Neal thought for a moment and said, "Yes, I know."

He cautiously trusted Peter when it came to sex. He didn't believe Peter would force him if he showed pain or distress. Even so, Neal was content not to test that belief.

"But I'm the master," Peter said. "It's my job to decide these things. I mean, of course I want you to tell me what you like and what you don't. And it's my responsibility to know what you can handle and to treat you okay. But it's still about what I like, and if you get to decide everything, you won't do your job."

"No," Neal said. "If you take me back, and you make the changes I've requested, I'll give you what you want. I promise. If I don't live up to my end of the deal, you won't have to live up to yours. But just because I'm your property doesn't mean I don't get any say. Your gun isn't even alive, but you keep it clean and take care of it, right?"

"Right...."

"Well, I'm saying I'll perform better if I have more motivation. Proper maintenance, if you will."

Peter nodded. "Maybe El is right. Maybe it's not unreasonable for you to want something in return."

Peter finally picked up his sandwich and took a bite. It reminded Neal of his own food, and made him realize that he was starting to get hungry. For a few minutes, they ate in silence.

"Listen," Peter said after a minute, "I don't know if I can meet your requests exactly, but El and I _will_ try to make you happy. I've been hard on you because I wanted you to learn some discipline and adjust to your new life. But we always meant to give you some more luxuries as time went on." He paused and smiled. "In fact...we were thinking of giving you a license soon."

"I could go places by myself?"

Peter nodded. "There'd be a lot of rules and limitations, but we thought it might be a nice birthday present."

His birthday...that was only a few weeks away. Tentatively, he asked, "So, does that mean I'm not in trouble? You're not mad at me for running?"

Peter's smile disappeared. "Oh, you're in trouble. And you should plan on not having very much fun for the next week or so. I get why you ran—I always knew you'd be tempted. But you could've ruined your life, Neal. I don't want to give you the impression that you can get away with this."

Neal had figured as much. His negotiation with Peter was going better than he'd expected, but hoping to avoid punishment was perhaps too optimistic.

"But," Peter continued, "I don't want to make your life miserable. If giving you some more freedom will prevent this from happening again, if it'll make it easier for you to serve out your sentence, then I'm willing to do that. When your punishment is over, it'll be over. We'll give you another chance."

Neal could live with that. It was uncertainty that he couldn't handle, like the possibility of being kept under house arrest for the next several months. He trusted Peter to stay true to his word. At the very least, he trusted him more than an unknown master in Thailand.

They finished their lunch. Neal only had enough appetite for half his sandwich, but it felt good to have some food in his stomach.

After paying the check, Peter said, "Ready to go home?"

Neal hesitated. "I guess so. I just wish I could have found Kate."

He consoled himself with the thought that he would have a better chance looking for her in the future if he stayed where he was. As a fugitive in Cape Verde, or as a black market slave in Thailand, there was no guarantee that he would be free to search for her.

Peter nodded sympathetically. They got up and headed for Peter's car.

Neal spent the drive lost in thought. He believed he was making the best choice, but the reality of it was starting to hit him. He was committing himself to three and a half more years of slavery, and had promised his cooperation. He wouldn't be able to give Peter a hard time over sex anymore. But then, Peter wouldn't be able to deny him what he wanted, either. If Neal came to regret his decision, there would be another way to escape. He could always find one.

It took him several minutes to realize that they weren't headed for Brooklyn. He lifted his head off the headrest and looked around.

"Why are we going this way?"

"You'll see," Peter said.

Neal sat back, but was uneasy. Where were they going? What if Peter had decided to be rid of him, after all?

A few minutes later, Peter found a parking spot on the street. Neal followed Peter out of the car, still confused about what they were doing. They walked a couple blocks before stopping in front of a pale brick building. It was a hotel, and the front looked vaguely familiar, though Neal was sure he'd never been here before.

"What are we doing here?"

"You wanted to see Kate. She's been staying here since she let the lease on your apartment end."

Now Neal realized why the building looked familiar. It was in the background of the picture in Peter's file.

"You're letting me visit her?"

"You've got a half hour, assuming she'll see you."

Neal turned to go inside, but Peter grabbed his arm.

"But Neal—after this, it's over, okay? No more running. We'll go home, and we'll both stand by our word, deal?"

"Deal."

"Good."

Peter led the way inside. They took the elevator to fourth floor. When they stepped out, Peter said, "She's staying in room 415. I'll wait in the hall. Remember—a half hour."

They found the door. Before Neal knocked, Peter said, "If she's up for it, you should ask her to write to you."

Neal was surprised at that, but didn't say anything. Taking one last look back at Peter, he knocked on the door.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neal receives some closure, and then faces the consequences of his escape.

He'd imagined this moment so many times, in different settings and contexts, but he'd never imagined how fast his heart was pounding, or how dry his mouth was.

When Kate answered, her eyes were wide and concerned. It reminded him of the day he was arrested.

"Neal...." she looked over his shoulder at Peter, who was standing against the wall.

"Peter brought me," Neal said. "I just want a minute."

"Okay...come in."

She stepped aside to let him in, and closed the door behind him.

Neal looked around the room. She had two large suitcases and a smaller bag by the window.

"I know you told Peter you didn't want to see me," he said.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to know that."

Kate sat down on the edge of the bed. She was dressed plainly in jeans and a knit top, and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, exposing her long, graceful neck. She folded her arms across her stomach.

"I thought it would make it harder for you," she said. "I didn't want you to think I was leaving you because you were a—because you were arrested."

Neal leaned against the desk against the opposite wall. "You aren't planning on us being together again, are you?"

She shook her head, but said, "I don't know. We weren't together for a while, Neal. You being arrested didn't change that. How can we even think about starting again right now?" Her eyes focused on Neal's neck. "You're not wearing a collar."

"I ran. To find you."

She looked away, her eyes glistening. "Neal...."

"Peter won't report it if I go back with him now. He let me come here first to see you." He glanced at the door. "But we can still run. Say the word, and I'll find a way to get us out of here."

Hope momentarily filled him. He started thinking of ways to do it—he could call room service to create a distraction. He could start to leave with Peter but break away. It would mean breaking his promise to Peter, and part of him would feel bad about that, but he wouldn’t feel bad in six months. Not if he was with Kate.

But Kate bit her lip and closed her eyes. "Please, don't. I don't want to run. How long do we have?"

"A half hour."

"Then let's not waste it."

It hadn't hit him until now that this might be goodbye. If he saw her again, it wouldn't be until he was freed. And even that was uncertain.

"Did you love me?"

She smiled and sniffled. "I think part of me will always love you."

It was as good of an answer as he could have hoped for, but the finality of it, the implication that she would never love him _enough_ , pierced him like a knife.

Kate stood up and put her hands on his shoulders. She kissed him, and he felt the dampness on her cheek when their faces touched.

She took his hand and led him over to the bed. They sat down, side by side, and he put his arm around her shoulder.

"So, you're moving to France?"

Kate nodded. "I am."

"You always loved France."

"I hope you'll visit, if I'm still there in four years."

"Three and a half."

She smiled. "Even better. Did Mozzie tell you where I stored your things?"

"He did. Thanks."

She cupped his cheek in her hand and cocked her head. "Will you be okay? They won't hurt you?"

"No. I'll be fine."

"Good. I think about you a lot."

He glanced at his watch. They still had twenty minutes. He didn't know how strictly Peter would hold them to it, but Neal wanted to use every minute wisely.

"I don't want to talk about me."

Kate nodded and stroked the side of his face. Neal closed his eyes as she pulled him closer and held his head against her chest.

 

* * *

 

When Neal emerged from the hotel room, Peter was still leaning against the wall. He was looking at his phone, and put it away when he saw Neal.

"Did you get what you needed?"

"Yeah, I think so."

It wasn't easy to leave, but it wasn't as difficult as he'd expected.

"All right. Let's go home." As they started to walk toward the elevator, he said, "Is she going to write to you?"

"She said she would. Thanks."

"See? I'm not so unreasonable about this stuff as long as you don't sneak around."

Still, knowing Peter, Neal expected any mail he received to be read and inspected thoroughly. But he could live with that.

He wasn't convinced that Peter would have been this understanding before. That he was now was a testament to how much Neal's escape had shaken him. It made Neal feel better. That, and the fact that Peter hadn't caught him, made Neal feel like he had some control. 

In the elevator, Peter said, "I called El while I was waiting for you. Told her I was bringing you home." He looked at Neal. "Good to see you smiling."

"Yeah, I was just thinking it was nice to turn myself in, instead of giving you the satisfaction of catching me again."

"Don't get cocky. A few more hours, and I'm sure I would've found you."

A few minutes later, they were in the car and heading in the direction of home. Neal's brief brush with freedom was about to come to an end. Of course, hiding out in Mozzie's safe house hadn't felt very free. But he would certainly miss the absence of the collar around his neck.

Regardless of what Peter had said about a second chance, he didn't expect Peter to be willing to take his collar off again for a long time.

When they arrived home, Elizabeth greeted them at the door. Like Peter, she had bags under her eyes and didn't look like she'd slept in a while. 

She hugged Neal tightly, but when she stepped back, she wore a stern look and said, "Don't you ever do that again."

"No, ma'am." A little respect couldn't hurt his case.

Peter disappeared upstairs, and Neal pulled his leftover cash out of his pocket.

"Elizabeth, I don't know if you noticed, but I sort of took your emergency cash from the Renaissance masters book."

"I did notice, actually."

He handed her the cash. "I spent a lot of it on cab fare, but here's the rest. I'll find a way to pay you back."

Her expression softened as she took the money. "Oh, Neal...it would take you months to pay me back with your allowance. I don't expect you to do that. We'll find another way for you to make up for it. Maybe you can cook something special."

Neal relaxed a bit. He could handle that.

Peter came back downstairs. When Neal saw that he was carrying the collar and the key, his shoulders slumped.

"Great...just what I was looking forward to."

Peter clicked his tongue. "You've had this thing off long enough."

Neal obediently stood still while Peter fastened the collar around his neck. He'd been without it long enough that its presence was obtrusive. But within a couple minutes it felt normal again.

"Now," Peter said, putting his hands on his hips, "we had a deal, remember? You said you know where the stolen Dali is."

With everything that had happened, it almost felt like the meeting with Valentine had happened days ago.

"Right."

Holding up his hand, Peter said, "Now, before you say any more, are you going to be implicated at all?"

Neal cocked his head. "You think I would help rob the Met while I'm your slave?"

"Just checking."

Neal wasn't concerned about being implicated. Even if Valentine realized Neal had reported him, Neal doubted he would admit to more crimes just to get revenge. He'd tried to purchase stolen art, had conspired with an escaped slave, and had tried to sell a slave on the black market—all serious charges.

Neal sat down on the sofa and told them as much about what happened as possible, while omitting Mozzie's involvement and any incriminating details about the Chagall.

When he'd finished, Elizabeth took his hands and rubbed her thumbs over the marks on his wrists. "This man didn't hurt you, did he?"

"No. Unless you count drugging me."

Elizabeth turned to Peter. "Maybe we should take him to a doctor, just in case."

"I'm fine," Neal said quickly. "I wasn't hurt, and I don't think we need to try to explain this to a doctor."

"He's right," Peter said. "If he says he wasn’t hurt, I believe him. It's better to keep it between us."

Elizabeth still looked concerned as she turned back to Neal. "I'm just glad you weren't kidnapped. I hate to think of what could have happened to you."

"You're lucky," Peter said. "I hope you realize that."

Neal didn't want to think of it as luck, but he knew that was part of it.

Peter continued. "But I appreciate this information. I'll have to find a way to get a search warrant before we can go after this guy, but at least we know where to look. Now, I think Elizabeth and I need to talk. I'd like you to wait down here."

Neal nodded numbly. He stayed on the sofa as Peter and Elizabeth went upstairs. To talk about him, he supposed.

He took advantage of the privacy to dig his burner phone out of his bag. To his surprise, there were no missed calls. Mozzie hadn't tried to call him back. 

He wondered how mad Mozzie was right now.

Neal erased the call history on the phone. No need to make it easy for Peter to find Mozzie's number, even of Mozzie had probably already ditched that one.

He considered putting the phone back in his bag and allowing Peter to find it. It'd be taken away, of course, just like the forged passport.

But he liked the idea of keeping a couple lifelines. Just in case. It was a risk, and Neal hadn't forgotten the punishment he'd gotten last time the Burkes discovered his contraband, but he decided to take his chances again. He collected the phone and passport and got down on his hands and knees. He reached underneath the sofa and felt around. Months ago, while cleaning, he'd discovered a tear in the cambric on the underside of the sofa. It was just big enough for him to fit the phone and passport inside.

Later, he would try to hide them outside the house somewhere. He could seal them in a plastic bag and bury them in the park, perhaps.

If one of the Burkes discovered them first...well, Peter should have known by now that Neal wouldn't stop trying.

Content that the items were secure for now, Neal sat back down on the sofa and waited. As the minutes ticked by, he grew tired, and slumped down so that he could rest his head on the sofa arm.

Eventually, he dozed off. He awoke to Peter shaking his shoulder.

Neal yawned and sat up. "Sorry. It's been a long day."

He still felt out of sorts from whatever Valentine gave him, too.

Peter nodded sympathetically. "I imagine you'll want to rest, so we'll make this quick. I told Elizabeth about our conversation this afternoon."

Neal looked questioningly at Elizabeth.

"I think we can handle your requests," Elizabeth said. "Actually, I think giving you a little more time off could be good. It's great having you take care of the house, but I'd like to do a little more cooking when I have time."

"And we agree you deserve a reward for helping us out at work," Peter said. "But it's been a long day. We can talk about this more later."

Neal nodded. He wasn't really in the mood for more negotiations, either. He planned to hold them to their agreement, though.

"The fact that you turned yourself in is a mitigating factor," Peter said. "But I told you I was going to punish you for running."

This was it. Neal wondered how bad it was going to be.

"I know," he said. "And I'll take the consequences."

"What do you think you deserve?" Peter asked.

Neal was taken aback. Peter had never asked him this before. Perhaps this was a new form of punishment—making him choose his own fate.

And he didn't know how to answer Peter's question. Neal didn't often think of himself as deserving punishment.

Finally, he said, "I don't think there's anything you could do to me that would teach me something I don't already know. But I know you need to punish me. So I'll accept your decision."

He hoped this was the right mixture of honesty and humility.

Peter nodded thoughtfully. "El and I will give it some thought. Right now, how about you get some rest? You were really out a minute ago."

Neal had mixed feelings about that. Peter was right—he was exhausted. But he wanted to know what his punishment was going to be.

But in the end, he was too tired to object. Peter picked up his bag and guided him up to his room.

Once there, Peter unceremoniously sifted through Neal's bag. When he was finished, he said, "All right, Neal. You know I need to search you."

Neal numbly took off his clothes, and Peter subjected him to a quick search. First, he made Neal open his mouth and run his fingers through his hair. Then he made him turn around, bend over, and spread his cheeks. Neal held the position until Peter patted him on the back.

"We'll talk about punishment later," Peter said. "For now, here's what's going to happen: you're going to stay naked for the next week, and you'll sleep on the floor of our bedroom where we can keep an eye on you."

"You mean, that isn't part of the punishment?"

"This is so you're not tempted to sneak out. It's a consequence, not a punishment. Any other questions?"

He gestured toward the bed. "Can I lie down?"

"Of course. You only have to sleep in our room at night. Go ahead and get some rest."

Peter left him alone, then. Neal sat down on the bed, and he noticed his shoebox sitting on the nightstand. So Peter had found his secret stash. They must have searched his room.

He picked it up and opened it. Most of the little odds and ends he'd collected were still there. The only thing missing was the screwdriver that Peter had been looking for a few months back. Neal could stand to lose that.

He put the shoebox back under the bed. It wasn't quite the same anymore now that the Burkes knew about it. But the fact that they hadn't taken it away gave him some comfort.

Neal curled up in his bed, pulling the blankets around his nude body. He couldn't sleep at first. He couldn't stop thinking about how Peter was going to punish him. 

Whatever it was, it couldn't be worse than what would have happened if he'd been arrested for escaping. He would have been sent to a reconditioning center—two months of punishment and strict discipline to cure him of his behavioral problems. He heard they made slaves sleep in cages.

The floor of master bedroom had to be better than that.

Soon enough, exhaustion overtook him. He was in a deep sleep a few hours later, when Peter shook him awake.

Neal blinked and looked around. It was dark, and Peter had turned on the lamp beside the bed.

He started to get up, but Peter put a hand against his chest, stopping him.

"Relax. You don't have to get up right away. We just wanted to continue our chat."

Neal looked around and saw Elizabeth standing in the doorway to the room.

So that was it, then. They must have come to a decision about his punishment.

"Oh?" Neal said.

Peter sat down on the edge of the bed. "Over the past couple days, I've spent a lot of time thinking about what I'd do when I caught you. I thought I'd be angrier than I am. Truth is...I'm proud that you turned yourself in. I'm proud you recognized that you made a mistake."

"Are you saying I don't deserve to be punished?"

"No, I'm saying I want to give you a chance. I don't want to make you so miserable that you regret doing the right thing. And you deserve some leniency after all you've been through today. But there have to be consequences. El and I were worried about you. We're responsible for your well-being. 

"You're on probation. You need to show me that I'm making the right choice in being lenient with you. We made a deal, but you need to stick to your end. Like I said, you will stay naked and sleep in our room. El and I are going to work it out so that one of us is always here to watch you. If we do need to take you out, you can dress, but you'll be on the leash. If I catch you trying to run again, you won't be allowed clothes at home for a long time. You'll sleep shackled to the bed. And I'll put you on a schedule of regular maintenance spankings."

"How long is this probation going to last, exactly?"

"One week. Then we'll put this in the past and make a fresh start. But if you try to run at any time, the consequences I mentioned will still stand."

Neal nodded. He could live with these terms. "I understand," he said.

"Good. Now, I think it's time we tried out the new paddle."

Peter stood and walked over to the dresser. He picked up the paddle, which Neal hadn't noticed until now. He sat back down on the bed and patted his knee.

Neal got up with a sigh, and draped himself over Peter's lap.

He wondered if Peter understood how ridiculous it was to spank him. What was he supposed to learn from it? But he thought back to what Peter had said about believing there needed to be consequences. Perhaps this was the kindest consequence Peter could give him. 

He wasn't going to give Peter a hard time. He knew that the success of their negotiation depended on him being good. In the future, it wouldn't be so critical. But for now, he'd pick his battles. He just wished Elizabeth wasn't staring at his ass.

Peter didn't bother to lecture him. He rubbed Neal's back as though he was trying to soothe him, and then wrapped a strong arm around his waist. When the paddle struck his ass for the first time, Neal jerked. The paddle made a sharp cracking sound when it hit his skin, and he swore it hurt worse than the old paddle. Apparently, quality _did_ make a difference.

Neal squirmed. Peter tightened his grip around his waist and gave him several rapid strikes. The sting was terrible, and Neal itched to reach back and protect himself. Meanwhile, he could feel the cool air between his cheeks and knew he was exposed to two sets of eyes.

It was the worst spanking Peter had ever given him, and yet Neal _still_ sensed that Peter wasn't putting his full strength into it.

The swats seemed to rain down with no end. Neal hoped in vain that Peter's arm would get tired and he would at least give him a breather. Until now, Neal hadn't seen Peter's spankings as much of a punishment. They were unpleasant, but something he endured to give Peter some peace of mind and let him feel like a good disciplinarian.

But this—this he would remember even after the redness faded from his bottom.

Peter started working on his thighs, now. Neal jumped at the first swat to that sensitive area.

Neal couldn't help himself. "Ow!" he exclaimed. "Peter, that's enough. I've learned my lesson."

Peter ignored him.

Neal reflexively tried to move his ass out of the line of fire, but Peter just held him tighter. Not being able to move forced him to focus solely on the sting in his ass. Neal's head was down by Peter's feet, and his clutched Peter's pant leg in his hands.

Peter turned his attention to Neal's sit spot. Neal grimaced and blinked away tears. He refused to cry over a spanking. He'd taken worse pain than this in stride.

But it was just too much. After everything that had happened today, the paddle tapped the last ounce of strength Neal had.

"I swear, Peter," Neal said, trying to keep his voice even, "I've had enough."

Peter continued the spanking for what felt like an eternity, but couldn't have been more than a minute. At last, he set the paddle aside. He patted Neal's bottom, making him jump, and helped him to his feet.

Neal gratefully got up. But before he could savor his relief, Peter looked around him at Elizabeth.

"All right, Hon," he said. "You want to take over?"

Neal tensed. Shaking his head, he said, "No, that isn't necessary...."

Peter gave him a hard look. "I think it is." To Elizabeth, he said, "Maybe we can try him on the bed on this hands and knees. That should be a good height for you."

"No," Elizabeth said, "I want him over my knee like you do it. I can hold him."

Peter stood, and Elizabeth took his place on the bed. Neal stood frozen and refused to budge. Peter placed a hand on his back and pushed him over to Elizabeth. Neal tried to give her a pitiful look. He had a lot of pride, but not when it came to trying to milk Elizabeth for sympathy.

But Elizabeth looked unmoved. "Come on, Neal," she said, "let's finish your punishment."

When Neal didn't move fast enough, Peter grabbed him and manhandled him over Elizabeth's lap. As they worked together to adjust his position, Neal started to squirm to get out of their grasp.

With a frustrated huff, Peter gave him a hard slap on the ass with his palm.

"Neal! Stop that!" Another slap. "If you don't settle down and behave for Elizabeth, I'll use my belt on you."

Neal froze. He lay across Elizabeth's thighs, his chest heaving.

"That's better," Peter said. "If you can't stay still, we might have to consider getting a spanking bench, after all."

In the face of that threat, his rebellion ebbed. He was embarrassed at himself for struggling. He'd agreed to accept the consequences, and he would.

It was hard, though. He was used to Peter doing the spanking. It was different with Elizabeth. It was bad enough for her to _see_ him like this, let alone take part. He was painfully aware of the way his deck was pressed against her leg.

Since Elizabeth was smaller than Peter, Neal had to rest his upper body on the bed. That meant his ass wasn't as elevated. A small mercy.

Elizabeth didn't paddle him as hard as Peter had. But his tenderized ass didn't seem to know the difference. Neal buried his head in his arms.

When it was finally over, Neal didn't have the energy to move. He lay spent across Elizabeth's lap and tried to wipe the tears from his eyes without them noticing. Elizabeth rubbed his ass and lower back.

Peter and Elizabeth allowed Neal a minute to recover, and then helped him sit up on the bed. Even the soft mattress was uncomfortable on his spanked bottom. Peter and Elizabeth sat down on either side of him, and Elizabeth wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

"There you go," Peter said, "all over now. But I mean it—you're on probation. And if you do run again, I won't be able to give you another chance. I'll have to report it to the authorities and have you classed as a fugitive."

Neal nodded. Trying to muster up some charm, he said, "I understand. Don't worry, Peter. Where am I going to go?"

Neal knew better than to make promises. But he had no intention of running again anytime soon. Kate would be gone. And somehow, just knowing that he _could_ run, and that he might be on his way overseas right now if he hadn't returned, gave him a stronger feeling of control.

"You'll be getting a couple reminder spankings this week, just to make sure the message sinks in."

Neal tensed. "Reminder spankings?"

"If you're good, I'll just use my hand."

Neal wasn't sure if that was such a good deal—Peter's hands were strong. Still, he had little doubt that had he not turned himself in, the reminder spankings would involve the paddle. Or the belt.

Peter patted his back and stood up. Neal expected him to leave, but instead his opened the top nightstand drawer and retrieved the bottle of lube that Neal was required to keep on hand.

Neal watched while Peter unbuckled his belt and lowered his pants. "Really?" he asked. "You want to do this now?"

"Yeah, I do. I'm happy to have my slave back. And it'll help seal the deal on our new start."

Neal raised his eyebrows. "Like a handshake?"

"Sure, kind of like that."

Neal didn't know what to make of this. Usually, Peter didn't want to touch him sexually after a punishment. He seemed to think it created the wrong mood.

Elizabeth must have noticed Neal's confusion. She brushed his hair out of his eyes and said, "Don't worry. It's not part of your punishment. He won't hurt you. We just think it'll do you some good to get fucked by your master, and have him inside you."

Now Neal understood. This was Peter reestablishing who was in charge.

Neal could have minded, but he didn't. He was willing to humor Peter if it paid off in the long run. If Peter was confident that he wasn't going to lose his slave, he would be more comfortable letting Neal have more freedom.

Peter bent over and kissed Neal. Neal parted his lips and let Peter's tongue push inside. The kiss was surprisingly soft, and the tension ebbed from Neal's body. Neal realized that his back and shoulders were sore from tensing his muscles.

Peter broke off the kiss. He stood up and aimed the tip of his cock at Neal's lips. Neal understood what that meant, and opened his mouth.

He was too worn out give an enthusiastic blow job, but Peter didn't seem to care. He squeezed Neal's shoulders and gently thrust into his mouth. He put one hand behind Neal's neck and gently held his head in place.

Neal relaxed his throat and let Peter do all the work.

Suddenly, Peter pulled out. Neal blinked, wondering if Peter was displeased.

But Peter simply pushed him onto his back. Neal scooted back and planted his feet on the bed, spreading his knees. Peter took off his pants and underwear and climbed onto the bed between Neal's legs.

Elizabeth curled up beside Neal and stroked his hair. She used her thumb to wipe away the drying tear tracks on Neal's cheeks.

While lubing up his cock with one hand, Peter used the other to gently stroke Neal's stomach.

When Peter slipped a couple slick fingers into Neal's hole, Neal obligingly inched his legs further apart. 

Peter smiled at that. "You're doing great," he said. "I'm going to take good care of you."

He could think of more appealing ways for Peter to prove it to him. But he could handle being fucked. Getting fucked meant being touched. It meant that Peter wasn't angry with him. He needed that right now.

And today, he was willing to give Peter what he wanted. He had some grudging respect for the fact that Peter hadn't turned him in. He knew it wasn't just fear of embarrassment or reproach that had prevented Peter from doing it. He knew the value of a master who would take care of him, and if Peter was willing to fill that role then, well, Neal could try to be a decent slave in return. At least occasionally.

He wasn't going to tell Peter this, though. Peter didn't need the ego boost, and it was better not to let Peter expect too much from him.

Peter pulled his fingers from Neal's ass and hooked his arms around Neal's thighs. He pushed Neal's legs back and pressed the engorged tip of his cock against Neal's hole. Neal's body offered no resistance as Peter pushed it in.

"There you go," Peter murmured. "That's good. Spread your legs and remember who your ass belongs to."

Neal felt like rolling his eyes at that. Instead, he hooked his ankles around Peter's waist. He reached up and placed a hand on Peter's taut bicep.

Peter was surprisingly gentle with him. Neal expected something rougher and more possessive. Instead, Peter's pace was almost agonizingly slow. A rough fuck left him sore, but it was quick and satisfying. But this time, it was like Peter was trying to savor something. He was trying to make an impression.

Neal felt like he was being teased. But he was too spent to do anything but take what Peter gave him.

Neal's eyes wandered up to a crack in the ceiling, but Peter's voice redirected his attention.

"No, I want you to look at me."

Neal locked his gaze onto Peter's face. He looked into his eyes. He didn't see as much lust as he usually did, but he didn't see anger, either.

Peter reached down with one hand and started to fondle Neal's cock. Neal hadn't thought himself capable of arousal right now, but his cock sprang to life in Peter's hand.

After what felt like a very long time, he let go of Neal's cock and gripped his legs. He squeezed his eyes shut and his muscles tensed. Neal felt Peter's cock twitch inside him as he came, filling Neal's ass with his come.

Elizabeth kissed his forehead. "Do you feel that? He's marking you. Because he likes you and we want you to be ours."

Panting, Peter pulled out. Instead of releasing Neal, however, he returned his attention to Neal's cock. He pursed his lips as though he was performing a duty, and didn't let up until Neal came. Neal bit his lip and whimpered.

Instead of getting up, Peter lay down beside Neal. Elizabeth still lay on his other side, stroking his hair.

Kissing him on the cheek, Elizabeth said, "I'm proud of you. You're taking this so well."

Neal lay sandwiched between them in silence. Their hands stroked his hair, his chest, his neck. His vision started to blur and he blinked rapidly to disperse the tears he couldn't hold back.

"Ah, it's okay," Peter said. "The worst is over. Things will be all right. You'll see."

Elizabeth cradled his head against her chest. "Do you miss Kate?" she asked.

Neal nodded.

"But it's more than that, isn't it? You miss being free."

He nodded again and sobbed.

"We know it isn't easy. But Peter's right. You're going to be fine. It's only a few years, and you're strong. We want to give you a good life."

She held him close and Peter rubbed his back while all the stress of the last few days came out in sobs.

When the sobbing abated and Neal's tears began to dry, Peter got up.

"I'm going to go get in the shower," Peter said. "You going to be all right?"

"Yeah," Neal said.

"When he's done," Elizabeth said, "maybe we can run you a bath. I know that will cheer you up."

As Peter started for the hall, Neal disengaged from Elizabeth's hold and spoke up.

"For the record, if I have to be owned by someone, I'm glad it's you guys."

Peter froze and looked over his shoulder. "You're not curious if you would've lucked out with the guy in Thailand?"

Neal knew what Peter meant: though there were horror stories about slaves being sold overseas to abusive owners, there were also some happy endings. Several years back, a slave who'd been kidnapped years prior turned up in Belgium, living under an alias after the man who bought him on the black market freed him. As his sentence had ended during his illegal captivity, he was free.

And Neal was nothing if not good at making the most of his circumstances.

But Neal said, "No. I'll take what I've got."


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a second chance to serve out his sentence, Neal makes the most of his deal with Peter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! Thank you to everyone who's read this, either on the kink meme, as I was reposting it, or now that it's been posted in full. It's a long fic that took me much longer to write than I anticipated, and I know that people have different tastes and preferences when it comes to slave fic, and that this fic probably doesn't appeal to everyone. So I've been very happy with the interest in it and the feedback I've gotten. I hope you find the ending satisfying.
> 
> In the future, I might want to write some short ficlets and timestamps set in this 'verse. As long as this fic is, I can still think of more ideas for it.

The last time Neal slept in a sleeping bag, he'd been eighteen. He'd cut ties with his family and spent a lot of nights crashing wherever he could until he learned how to pick pockets and con his way into money.

He'd forgotten how uncomfortable it was, sleeping on the floor. His freshly-paddled ass didn't help matters.

He turned over onto his side, trying to get comfortable. The nylon sleeping bag rustled around him.

He'd forgotten how noisy sleeping bags could be, too.

The bedroom was dark, save for a lamp turned on low on one of the nightstands. Neal was starting to regret his earlier nap, as he wasn't anywhere near ready to sleep.

Neal turned over, with more rustling. He stopped fidgeting when he realized that Peter and Elizabeth were speaking softly to each other. He froze and tried to listen.

"Hon," Peter was saying, "we shouldn't reward him."

"I know!" Elizabeth hissed back. "But he's obviously uncomfortable, and it's noisy."

There was some more soft speech that he couldn't quite make out, but the essence was clear enough. 

Neal turned onto his stomach, making sure to rustle the sleeping bag as much as possible.

"Neal...."

It was Peter. Neal stopped moving.

"Yeah?"

Peter sighed. "Would you like to join me and Elizabeth on the bed?"

Neal hesitated, pretending to consider it. "All right. If you want me to."

He unzipped the sleeping bag and freed himself from it. He climbed up the foot of the bed and settled down between Peter and Elizabeth. They quickly moved to make room for him, and Elizabeth flipped back the covers so he could climb inside.

"Thanks," Neal said. "It's cold on the floor."

He hoped they'd relax the "no clothing" part of his punishment, too. But neither of them made any move to get him some pajamas.

"All right, all right," Peter said. "Try to go to sleep. Some of us have to work in the morning."

Neal burrowed under the covers and rested his head on the edge of Peter's pillow.

He was still wide awake, but at least he was more comfortable.

He lay awake for a while longer, listening to Peter and Elizabeth's soft breaths. He wondered if Mozzie and Kate were asleep right now, or if they were still up. Thinking about him, maybe.

Not for the first time today, Neal wondered if he'd done the right thing. But he knew that no matter what he'd said, Kate wouldn't have run with him. And if he was honest with himself, he had no right to expect her to. She was right—they hadn't been together for a long time, now.

Perhaps someday, that knowledge would be easier.

 

* * *

 

After his probation, Neal slowly eased into a new routine. The changes Neal had demanded didn't feel as drastic as he'd expected, but they made things more comfortable.

One evening, a few weeks later, he was stirring gravy on the stove when Peter came home in a jubilant mood. Neal heard him greet and kiss Elizabeth. Then, he came over and wrapped his arms around Neal's waist. He nuzzled Neal's neck and kissed him just above his collar.

"You're in a good mood," Neal said.

"We got Valentine today. Search warrant finally came through."

Neal set down the whisk and turned around. "You recovered the Dali?"

"Yep. He still had it. When we arrested him, he became very eager to lead us to his accomplice, and give us any other information we wanted in exchange for a good deal."

"He's selling other people out? What a surprise." Perhaps it said something about Neal that he felt only the briefest glimmer of sympathy for Valentine, but he didn't dwell on it.

"Hey, the Met got its painting back, the case is closed, Sterling Bosch is happy. And it wouldn't have happened if you hadn't steered me in the right direction."

Neal turned around and resumed stirring. "And yet the reward money remains unclaimed."

"Considering you only knew the Dali's location because you were trying to fence stolen property—"

"In theory."

"—I think you should you should be happy with what you've got."

Neal knew that, of course. But even so, it rankled to not get any credit. He wondered if Sara had gotten any money.

"Well," Elizabeth said, "I think this calls for a celebration. How about I open that bottle of Syrah we've been saving?"

"Sounds great," Peter said. "And Neal, how's this for a reward—on Saturday, I'll take you to that Warhol exhibit you've been hinting about."

"I think I can accept that."

The gravy was simmering nicely. Neal switched off the burner and went to grab some plates from the cupboard.

But as he reached for the cupboard handle, Peter came up behind him again. Neal could feel the warmth of his body even before Peter reached out and squeezed Neal's ass.

Neal wiggled away from Peter's grasp. He reached back and swatted Peter's hand.

"It's Tuesday. Hands off."

"You're no fun. Guess you'll have to miss out tonight when El and I go upstairs."

"Yeah, I guess so."

Neal didn't exactly mind what Peter was proposing, but he had to be firm. There was no point in having days off if he still gave them whatever they wanted, and he'd acquiesced enough already by helping Elizabeth cook dinner.

Still, he didn't mind the sex as much these days. Neal was accepting Peter's efforts to make it more enjoyable for him.

At dinner, Peter and Elizabeth let him drink some Syrah. Afterward, he went upstairs to his makeshift studio and worked on a painting he had on the easel. The wine made his brushstrokes more relaxed, almost reckless. That wasn't always a bad thing. Forgeries took confidence. If you worried too much, it always showed.

Neal felt more relaxed than he had in a long time, and he knew it wasn't just the Syrah. He wondered what that said about himself. He wholeheartedly rejected the notion that he was _adjusting_ to slavery. But he'd learned to accept it, and even make the most of his situation.

And he couldn't deny that, for the time being, the Burkes' house had become his home.

He heard a noise below his feet and paused with his brush hovering over the canvas. He listened, and picked up the sound of Elizabeth giggling. Peter moaned.

Evidently, they were doing just fine celebrating without him. They could handle not having their slave a couple nights a week.

With a small smile, Neal returned to his painting.

 

* * *

 

"You know, I expected stake-outs to be more interesting."

"And I thought you wanted me to take you out on a case."

"I did, but Peter, it's Saturday afternoon. Nothing exciting has happened on this video feed for over an hour, and the van smells. This isn't exactly what I had in mind."

Peter smirked. "This is what investigative work is, Neal. It's the thrill of catching your man after a lot of hard work."

"Well, the only thing we've learned today is that our man shops at Whole Foods."

"Oh, come on, it's not that bad. I've always liked stakeouts. There's something exciting about it."

Neal didn't see how Peter could find any of this exciting. The van was cramped, hot, and smelled like grease and electronics. It made him feel bad for the agents who'd spent hours staking out museums, hoping to catch him in the act of stealing something.

"I thought I was promised a trip to the Warhol exhibit today."

"We have plenty of time. I told you—we'll go when Jones relieves us at two."

Neal leaned back in his creaky chair and returned to his previous pastime: admiring the new picture ID he had.

An idea occurred to him. Looking back up at Peter, he said, "How about I go buy us some coffee? You don't have to worry about me now. I have a license." He held the card up for Peter to see, as though Peter might have forgotten about giving it to him.

"No. I don't want you disappearing because you're bored. We've got everything we need right here."

Neal sat back, dejected. He was anxious for any chance he could get to go out unattended. Yesterday, he'd gone to work with Peter and was allowed to go out and get lunch on his own.

The Burkes had gotten him a "slave phone," as well. It was a cheap, simple cellphone that allowed them to access his call records. He was supposed to keep it on him when he was unsupervised.

But for now, it seemed he was stuck in the van. He leaned over to get his wallet out of his pocket, and put his license away. Then he sat back and studied Peter.

For all Peter's insistence about enjoying stakeouts, he looked tired and tense. His eyelids were drooping after a few hours of staring at the grainy screen in front of him.

Neal scooted his chair closer and reached for Peter's shoulders.

Whipping his head around, Peter said, "What are you doing?"

"You're tense. Let me."

He started to massage Peter's shoulders. He felt Peter's muscles relax. Peter made a content murmur and turned his attention back to the screen.

Neal worked his hands across Peter's shoulders. He rubbed at the tense muscles in his neck, and then worked his way down to his back.

"That's good...." Peter said.

"What would you do without me? Well, aside from getting another slave."

"Oh, I think I'll be done with being a slave owner after you're free."

"Yeah? You sure you'll be able to go back to doing your own laundry?"

"It'll be tough, but I think taking in one felon is enough. Besides, I didn't just want a slave—I wanted _you_." 

"I'm honored."

In a way, he was. He was too fond of valuable objects not to take some pride in being one.

Jones arrived right at two to relieve them, and Peter took Neal to the exhibit as promised. When they got home, it was still light out and Satchmo was whining to go out. Elizabeth was running an event today, so he'd been cooped up all day.

"Hey," Neal said. "I think I'll take Satchmo out for a bit. Let him stretch his legs."

"Okay. Don't be too long. I thought you could show me what else you can do with those hands of yours."

He rubbed Neal's ass. Neal pressed against his hand.

"I take it you don't mean a pick-pocketing demonstration."

"No. That's not exactly what I had in mind."

Neal grinned. "Maybe you'll get lucky."

Neal got changed into jeans and a t-shirt and put Satchmo on his leash. The idea of purposely taking his time briefly occurred to him, but he found he was okay with what Peter was proposing.

He would save his rebellion for when he needed it.

He intended to take Satchmo for a quick walk in the park. He hadn't brought any toys, but a walk around the perimeter would give Satchmo a chance to stretch his legs.

Since it was Saturday, the park was busy. There were several dogs running around, and Satchmo started tugging on his leash with excitement.

Amidst all the people, Neal spotted a suspicious figure lingering behind a tree. Satchmo wagged his tail and started to pull Neal over.

"We can see you, Moz," Neal said. "You can come out, now."

Mozzie stepped out from behind the tree. He was wearing a trench coat and had a hat pulled down low over his brow.

"How did you spot me?"

"Your disguise isn't exactly subtle. And the dog recognizes you."

Mozzie looked down at Satchmo and held up a warning finger. "Don't rat us out."

"I don't think he's going to say anything, Moz. And there's no need for a disguise—I'm alone. But I can't stay long." He paused. "Are you angry?"

"What? No. Concerned, yes. Distressed, maybe."

"I haven't heard from you in a while. I didn't know what to think."

"I've come around a few times, but I haven't seen you."

"Right. We should probably come up with a way to plan meetings. Look, about what happened, I'm sorry. I know you stuck your neck out for me."

Neal started to walk slowly with Satchmo, and Mozzie joined him. Together, they started to circle the park.

"I blame myself," Mozzie said. "If I hadn't sent you to Valentine...."

"I was already having doubts. What happened just confirmed them."

"What did it confirm, exactly?"

"That running is a big move, and I don't want to do it unless I have to. I have to face reality. I'm a slave right now. That's how people see me."

"It's not how _I_ see you," Mozzie said softly.

"I know. And I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. But guys like Valentine aren't that charitable. Right now, it's better to have a good master. And if I run, I can never come back. In a few years, I'll be free and I'll have a choice. I can stay here, or I can make a new life somewhere else."

Satchmo stopped to sniff at a tree, and Neal paused to oblige him.

"But now you're at the mercy of the Suit. I can't imagine what unspeakable horrors you've been experiencing. I've been picturing you locked up in a cage. Or sent to a slave trainer. If I didn't see you soon, I was going to launch a rescue mission."

"Everything's okay."

"No, but seriously. You can tell me if they're inflicting horrific tortures on you."

"They're not. They've been good to me lately. They give me a little money. I have a license. They're even letting me write to Kate in France."

"Ah, they're trying to give you Stockholm syndrome so you won't try to escape again."

"They're trying to make me happier."

"Same thing!"

Neal sighed. "Maybe. The point is, if Peter wants to make things bearable for me, I'm not going to turn him down. I like Peter. I'd like him better if he wasn't my master, but at least I have a master I trust."

Mozzie nodded slowly. "Better the devil you know than the one you don't."

"Exactly."

"You do have an uncanny ability to turn situations to your advantage. It only took you, what, seven months to get the Suit to give you the things you want."

"Hey, give me time. It's a work in progress."

"If you change your mind, the rescue mission is still a go."

"Thanks, Moz. And thanks for coming."

"Always, mon frère."

It was getting late. The sun was starting to set, and the air was chilly, now. Goosebumps cropped up on Neal's bare arms. He'd already been gone for a half hour, and Peter was probably getting impatient.

He said goodbye to Mozzie, promising to meet him again next week. Then, he let Satchmo lead the way home.


End file.
